


The Illusionist: Passion, Purpose, and Penance

by SeydaNeen



Series: The Illusionist [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Angst, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Fluff But Very Rarely And Never For Long Enough, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Love Triangles, Mild Smut, Obsession, Physical Abuse, Romance, Slow Burn, This Fic is Problematic, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2021-04-01
Packaged: 2021-04-17 22:22:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 47
Words: 315,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21760027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeydaNeen/pseuds/SeydaNeen
Summary: Nimileth has spent the past two years running from the responsibility of Uriel Septim's dying wish. Now, her search for power and purpose in the realm of the arcane must come to an abrupt halt as she finds herself swept away by the blood of familial ties and a deadly love affair.How could such nefarious hobbies feel so natural?
Relationships: Female Hero of Kvatch | Champion of Cyrodiil/Lucien Lachance, Lucien Lachance/Original Female Character(s), Lucien Lachance/Silencer, Raminus Polus/Original Female Character(s), Vicente Valtieri/Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Illusionist [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564525
Comments: 201
Kudos: 132





	1. Skirting the Black Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the murder of the Countess Alessia Caro, Nimileth is followed by a mysterious man with a mysterious offer.

**Chapter 1: Skirting the Black Road**

A week had passed since the Listener informed Lucien of the murder committed by a young Bosmer woman residing in the city of Anvil. _Typical of Ungolim to skimp on the details_, the Speaker thought with a wry smile, especially surrounding the rather decadent nature of _this_ murder. 

From what he had gleamed of the rumors and hearsay, the mutilated body of Countess Alessia Caro had been found on the Black Road, her guards paralyzed beside her corpse. Now, this wasn't Morrowind, and it wasn't every day that a noblewoman was assassinated in such grisly fashion; He couldn't think of a bigger stir since Emperor Uriel Septim's death two years prior. Resigned to his status as Speaker, he lived vicariously through moments like these, and with a burning eagerness, he snatched up the first copy of the _The Black Horse Courier_he could find.

Lucien got chills when he read the details in paper. And Lucien did not shiver often.

Now, however, he was growing impatient. Despite his best efforts, he had been unable to approach the woman alone with his family’s proposition. After receiving his orders from the Listener in Bravil, he had travelled straight to the southern coastal town of Anvil only to find her residence empty. It was a lavish manor that sat beside a glittering pond at the end of the main road with a well-manicured garden blooming behind a fence of cobblestone. Lucien had thought he'd be looking down at the docks, for one of the beaten down shacks that lined the salt-crusted harbor. This was... picturesque, and it was not at all what he had imagined.

Seeing as he now had nothing left to do in town but leave it, he scaled his way up to the balcony and let himself inside, took a moment to himself to peer around the second floor. Lucien was a curious man. Perhaps too curious, and though his fingers itched to rifle through her study, maybe sift through he scrawled notes in her bedside table, he maintained his self-control. As awfully interested as he was in learning what kind of woman the Countess's killer was, ransacking would only spoil the surprise.

And he wanted to hear it from her own lips.

Slipping down from the balcony, he returned to the city-streets and approached a local beggar slumped against the border wall. With a few septims at the ready, he asked about the woman who owned the manor.

_"Nimileth? The alchemist down the road?"_

The beggar was well-acquainted with the Wood Elf, it seemed. He had described her as “_a gentle soul and fervent follower of the Nine._” Lucien bit the inside of his cheek to keep from scoffing. He knew few devout disciples of the Divine, even fewer who share his occupation. For a few more coins, the beggar revealed that the woman, Nimileth, was likely at the Arcane University where she stayed while conducting business on behalf of the Mage’s Guild.

_A murderer, a chapel-goer, and a mage?_ Lucien’s interest was certainly piqued.

And so Lucien left for the capital. Knowing full well that the University was off limits to him, the Speaker made his rounds through the Imperial City to gather information, starting in the Market District and working his way to the Talos Plaza. The beggars in this city knew her too, and from what he could gauge, they seemed loyal to the woman. Protective even. Most feigned ignorance when asked about her habits, her usual haunts, her daily routine, though from their shifting eyes and tightly pursed lips, Lucien could tell that they were lying to him. They eyed him with suspicion, holding onto their words carefully before darting off into the dark of the alley ways. Only after he threatened to rip a man’s tongue from his mouth and feed it back to him did Lucien receive the information he had come for.

Finally, he arrived at the Waterfront to greet her. Casting one of the few cantrips he knew, an albeit weak detection charm, he approached the rickety shack, second down from the end just as the beggar had described. The shabby structure was quite a step down from the manor she owned in Anvil, with an ill-fitting door, slanted pillars, and cracked windows, and Lucien wondered why a woman of her wealth would chose to stay in this dump on the Waterfront of all places. Cursing quietly under his breath, he discovered that the shack was occupied by three additional housemates. It wasn’t uncommon that a potential recruit lived in the company of others, but his offer necessitated a privacy that the one-bedroom shack simply could not provide.

On that first night, he waited. He cast a detect life spell periodically and found four aura's inside, three sleeping and one sitting idle. Each time he refreshed his spell he expected to find that the last small, glowing figure had joined the other three laying flat in their beds, but all night she roamed about the room.

By the movements of the purple glow of his spell, he guessed that she started the night by reading for several hours. At half past two, she was chopping and grinding ingredients. At one point, she seemed to be stretching, then proceeded to either dance or perform some sort of calisthenic exercise that he was quite unfamiliar with. Confused and growing increasingly agitated, Lucien waited outside the shack until morning despite the promise of rain that hung in the clouds above.

Morning rose and with it, dark skies. A fog rolled through the waterfront. Lucien grumbled as the bite of storm wind swept his hood off his head.

Even if this woman was a seasoned assassin herself, it was waste of his time to chase her across Cyrodiil. He had his own contracts to attend to, and the sooner he could convey his message the better. Pale light beckoned the spread of dawn, and at last, the door of the shack creaked upon. Lucien rose to his feet.

A woman, no, _a girl_ stepped out into the crisp, misting air of morning, shrouded by a dark green cloak. It was the one he had watched all night long. The small, sleepless one with her strange nightly routine. Shutting the door behind her, she stared at the tree before which Lucien stood, and he held his breath on reflex, holding himself still as stone. She stared for a long time, long enough for Lucien to run out breath, but eventually, she walked off toward the waterfront docks, the skip in her step far too energetic for someone who hadn’t slept all night. In the distance, he heard her murmurred voice greet a neighbor who was readying a tacklebox beneath the eaves of nearby porch, and it was a cheerful sound, too cheerful to belong to anyone but a remorseless killer.

Lucien debated whether to follow her or give up for the day, return later that night. Casting one last glance in the Bosmer’s direction, he froze suddenly in place. 

The woman stood at the end of the dirt path, still as stone, her face shrouded by the hood of her cloak, but he could _feel_ her eyes upon him. For a moment he thought he had forgotten to slip on his chameleon ring, but a quick look down at his translucent, shimmering form revealed that he was indeed hidden from view. Seconds ticked by, and she stood there unflinching as the mist swelled to rain and trickled over her. The neighbor called to her, laughing and questioning her odd behavior, and it was only then that she broke away from her stare.

Lucien should have realized then that the girl knew.

* * *

For the next four days, Lucien swore that the girl was leading him on a goose chase. On Morndas she left the Imperial City for Bruma with one of her housemates. On Middas they travelled down to Chorrol where they parted ways in the afternoon, and Lucien sighed in premature relief, assuming the girl would rent a room at a nearby inn so he could finally catch her alone.

She did not.

He followed after her, all the more annoyed. She left town and headed through the forest to the south, avoiding the Black Road for the entirety of her journey. Her green cloak and the dark skin of her wiry legs disguised her well among the verdant, summer foliage. Lucien moved swiftly to keep behind her. She walked and walked, her pace ambling then quickening, ambling then quickening with no rhyme or reason at all, not unless she knew he was following. Lucien discarded the idea.

To his amusement, the girl stopped only when she spied a wayshrine to Julianos near a remote farmhouse, and he nearly snorted when he saw her kneel before it to pray. She then proceeded to the farmhouse, knocking a few times on the door before two young men, twins from what he could tell, welcomed her with open arms and led her inside. Lucien grumbled to himself as he withdrew to a nearby tree to wait for morning. The life of a Speaker was not always as glamorous as he had once been made to believe.

He awoke early the next day to pale light breaking through the canopy above. He waited, expecting her to leave for the next part of her journey, but she never emerged from the farmhouse. She certainly wasn’t dead. No, Lucien could tell these twins were no murderers. Yet the trail was cold. No sign of her. This left Lucien with two options. Return to the Sanctuary and request information on her whereabouts or wait for her to show up in the city where he knew she lived in. He began his trek back to Anvil, begrudgingly so, and once there, he hung to the city walls keeping his eyes peeled for the woman's arrival.

Another day passed before he spied her. She approached from the dock gates and walked calmly down the road alongside the small pond where he sat, shrouded in waiting. She had removed her cloak before entering the city, and Lucien could finally see the profile of her face, blurred in the distance. The warm rays of the Gold Coast shimmered along the length of her hair, a rich shade of rusted brown. It billowed wildly, up and down and up and down, full of static in the dry air.

She entered the large house at the end of Anvil’s main street, a house much too large to belong to such a small person. As the day proceeded, he watched her run small errands around town. Several hours tending to her garden in the warm summer light. A trip to the local guild hall with a basket full of clinking glass vials. Afternoon mass at the Temple of Dibella. Dinner alone at the nearby tavern. 

Following her return home, Lucien waited eagerly for evening to fade. Pressed against the city wall by the pond, he kept a watchful eye on the orange flicker in the windows of her manor, and when the light along the the bottom floor had been extinguished, Lucien felt his heart skip a meter in his chest. He glanced up to the familiar second-floor balcony and considered scaling the roof to enter, but that seemed far too characteristic of an assassin or a thief and for today at least, Lucien did not come to act as either.

The locks to her house were impossible pick. Three sets lined the back of her front door. A bit paranoid, he observed, and if she was in the business of assassinating nobility, she certainly had reason to be. Fortunately, he had cracked a window before he had left the first time he visited, and to his benefit, it remained open. After adjusting to the darkness surrounding him, he looked around the room for any hints among her personal affections that might provide insight into what kind of a person this Bosmer truly was.

The foyer was lavishly furnished and decorated with ornate ceramic pottery and a garden's worth of house plants. He recognized some of them for their common alchemical properties, others for their widely regarded aesthetic value. Welkynd stones and various Ayleid artifacts lined the mantle next to polished minerals and assorted rodentine bones, a few bird skulls sprinkled in for variety.

On the walls hung large oil paintings of the Cyrodillic landscape. _Rythe Lythandas originals_, Lucien noted with a nod of appreciation for those did not come cheap. He took a moment to himself to look on in admiration as he surveyed a painting that reminded him of his brief time travelling through Mournhold- A giant mushroom tower reminiscent of a Tel.

_A fine taste in décor_, he thought, but far too posh for his own preference. Though he wasn't shy in his spending, Lucien preferred simplicity in his everyday life, something practical and well-made, though he was curious as to what profession could afford the women such luxuries. The alchemy business was stable but certainly not booming. He didn’t know of any particularly wealthy mages outside of the Mages Guild Council or the Telvanni of Morrowind. She didn’t seem of nobility. She certainly didn't dress like it, and she didn’t travel as though she were well-off, choosing to stay in cheap inns or with acquaintances instead. 

He proceeded silently through the kitchen, savoring the lingering scent of lavender tea that clung in the air. Passing through the dining room, he reached a winding staircase that led to the closed door of her bedroom on the second floor. Faint yellow light danced through the small sliver of space beneath it. He cast his detect life spell, watching as the purple shape on the other side shifted in her bed, tossing and turning. A much smaller purple shape moved into his visibility, a cat, he guessed by its soft, graceful gait. When the sliver of light faded beneath the door, Lucien slipped on his chameleon ring and took a seat at one of the chairs in the dining room. He waited. Lucien was good at waiting. He did not like it, but oh, he did it well.

As he sat there, allowing time to pass for the woman to fall asleep, Lucien's mind strayed, never far from the task at hand, but wander it did. Nearly a week of his time had been spent in pursuit of this girl, and by now the travel had begun to grow taxing. Were he not on business, she would be dead in a minute, for wasting his time if nothing else. He smiled to himself in anticipation. Perhaps she would refuse his invitation tonight. Perhaps she would attempt to fight him, and if she raised her blade, then Lucien would be _forced_ to draw his. And if the tip of his dagger kissed too close to the carotid, would it truly be his fault?

_Blood_, hot, scarlet, and arterial, flooded his thoughts like summer rain. The prospect of a release after such an endless chase excited him more than he cared to admit. 

Shaking such visions from his mind, Lucien calmed himself, returning to the reason for his visit. He was supposed to _recruit _her no matter how much more tempting the alternative was. He imagined how he would make his offer to her. First impressions were quite powerful in his business, after all. For a moment, he debated walking up to her door right then and knocking. He loved the suspense before an introduction, the sharp gasp of fear released by an unsuspecting recruit upon learning that they were not as alone as they had once believed.

But he could also wait for them to fall asleep, and there was nothing quite as satisfying to Lucien as the look one made when he awoke them. For half a second, they would think they were still dreaming before cold, dreadful realization set in. Some would look on in silent terror. Others would shriek or cry. Most exciting were the ones with quick reflexes and a dagger beneath their pillow. Lucien wondered what this Nimileth looked like when she slept. Was she haunted, face pinched into deep distress as her guilt came to taunt her? Was she silent, surrendered to the bliss of an unconscious void? What did she dream of, the little murderer she was?

Lucien sat in silence until he felt his moment dawn. Yielding to the will of the Dread Father, he made his way up the stairs, suppressing the small smile that teased at his lips. Under usual circumstances, he would not be so excited for a mere recruiting, but under normal circumstances he was not dragged half-way across Cyrodiil in the process. He was close now. He had caught her.

Lucien stifled his grin, scolding himself but not harshly. These were precious moments, he reminded himself, when he ought to be composed, collected. For the sake of professionalism, if nothing else.

Finally, he reached the top landing and retrieved a lockpick from his pocket. Taking a quick second to straighten his robes, he pressed his ear to the door, listened for the click of the pins as he worked the pick against them. He reached down, gripped the door knob when--

“Come in,” a soft voice called out to him from beyond the door, interrupting the sanguine fantasies that skipped across the fore of his mind. He heard the tumblers release despite no footsteps sounding from the other side. An alteration spell, he reasoned. She was a mage after all.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise to Lucien that she knew he was following her. He had noted her suspicion upon his first arrival to the Waterfront. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she had stayed awake the entire night because she knew he was waiting outside her shack. However, she didn’t seem so aware of his presence as he followed her across Cyrodiil this past week, and now he found himself caught off guard.

Lucien opened the door, and stared into the pitch blackness beyond. He stepped inside the large bedroom, felt the darkness swallow him whole, and at that moment a burst of flame grew before him. He blinked, and upon opening his eyes, found lambent light dancing from a silver tray of candles on the windowsill across from him.

A sudden feline hiss, and he turned towards the bed where a small black cat glared at him with piercing, yellow eyes. 

“Please, sit with me,” the voice spoke again. Lucien looked to his left and met the Bosmer’s stare, had to stop himself from staggering in surprise. Ungolim had said she was young. He hadn't specified how young.

The woman stared with eyes that betrayed nothing. They were dark in color, brown rimmed in juniper green, and comically large for the small frame of her face. They bore into him with a harrowing intensity, reflecting the flame of the surrounding candles like polished silver. Her skin was deep ochre, the shade of cinnamon bark, and even in the dim lighting he could see the dusting of darker freckles across it. Disheveled hair fell around her shoulder in a loose braid, and although that she was scantily dressed in a cloth brassiere, she made no gesture to cover herself.

Beside the bed was a small nightstand and a wooden chair set to face her. She stared blankly as he passed through the doorway, only blinking when he took his seat. 

“So we finally meet,” the Bosmer said dryly. “Wine?” She motioned towards the two silver goblets on the table in front of him. “399 was a particularly good vintage. One of Skingrad’s finest, I think.”

The casual hum of her voice did not match her vacant expression. She swallowed down a lump into her throat, and if Lucien had blinked, he would have missed it. The urge to smile returned. She was terrified, and though she hid it well, he could recognize fear as though it were a sixth sense. He could feel it, nearly palpable in the brittle air between them.

“You are most hospitable," he said with a nod. "It would be rude of me to decline.”

The woman nodded her head and reached for the bottle that had been set on the small bedside table. Lucien expected her hands to tremble as she picked it up. She uncorked the bottle with a snap of her fingers, poured the wine as the cork floated itself back down. To Lucien's disappointment, her hands held steady. 

“I’ve had worse first impressions,“ she said, handing him his drink. She leaned back into the mass of pillows against the headboard, her red comforter slipping down to her stomach.

Lucien sniffed the wine discreetly. He knew his poisons better than most and detected no hint of nightshade or harrada. He sipped his wine in silence, watching as the pillows engulfed her small frame. She shifted in bed, throwing her plait over he shoulder, and he found that holding eye contact was beginning to prove difficult.

But he had trained for moments like these, and he wouldn’t let his eyes wander, for the sake of professionalism, if nothing else. 

The woman continued. “Now is as good a time as any for introductions, don’t you think?”

Lucien replied with a cool, cultured smile. Usually, he would be more than happy to begin the introductions, but usually he didn't find himself sitting in a bedroom, his recruit half-dressed, with a glass of wine in his hand. He couldn’t help but feel as though this girl knew more about him than he did her, and in his line of business, that simply would not do.

“In due time, dear child," he said, bowing his head. "But I must say I find myself intrigued.” 

She squinted at him, her nose wrinkling at his words as though he had said something to insult her. She opened her mouth, and for a moment, looked as though she were readying a quip or snide remark, but she stopped herself, returned her back to the pillows, and her face fell once more to that vacant, plain expression. Lucien thought she had looked slightly annoyed following his comment. That, or perhaps she was stifling a sneeze. Maybe there was something in his teeth that displeased her. He took another sip of his wine.

“I can see that you expected company,” he said, gesturing toward the table beside her. He was met with hollow silence. “You knew that I was coming then?”

“Yes, I’ve grown accustomed to people turning up uninvited in the night,” the Bosmer sighed with palpable bitterness and stared longingly into her goblet. “I don’t see the difficulty in writing ahead of time, yet here we are. Still, if you’re intent on making yourself a guest, I might as well play the part of a welcoming host. You seemed like the kind of man who would appreciate a fine wine. Red, not white.”

She offered Lucien a smile, small and mischievous. He wanted to adjust himself in his seat, pull himself closer to the head of the bed where he could see her more clearly in the faint, dancing light, but he kept still and returned the grin. He nodded as though expecting her to continue talking, but she held his gaze with that artificial smile still plastered on her face. 

“Do you know the purpose of my visit?” he asked, bringing his goblet to his lips. So far there was less talk and a lot more sipping than he had anticipated. The wine settled pleasantly in his belly. It was a fine vintage indeed.

“I know that you’re a member of the Dark Brotherhood. You’re one of the Black Hand. You’ve been following me for the past five days and have had numerous chances to kill me, so you’re not here on a contract.” 

“Oh, and how do you know that I’m not?” Lucien interjected with a lascivious grin, unable to stave off the temptation. To his delight, her eyes lit up with the smallest flicker of fear, but it was soon doused with a casual roll. She scoffed, feigning ennui despite the fear that had taken her moments ago.

“You’ve already drank my wine, for one," she said. "I could have poisoned it yet you haven’t even waited for me to drink myself. It's abundantly clear that you don’t consider me a threat. No, I think you may be here to offer me something, if I may be so bold.”

Lucien's chuckle filled the brief pause. He was quite impressed with the little Bosmer, and very little surprised him these days. Although it was not the first time he met a recruit that was aware of the Dark Brotherhood's existence, it was the first time one had predicted his offer. And to mention the Black Hand at that. How could she possibly be aware of his identity among their ranks?

Lucien studied her again for a quick, hard moment. She was already far from what he had pictured of the Countess's assassin. Young, wealthy, educated. A productive member of society in good standing, for all her knew. He had no reason to believe she was Morag Tong now, did he? At the prospect, his stomach fluttered, fingers aching for his blade.

“And are you?” he asked.

“Am I what?”

“A threat.” 

The woman took her first sip of wine and shrugged. A casual indifference, dare he say _boredom_, coated the gesture.

“I suppose that depends on how sweet your offer is."

And so the suspense held steady. Lucien was very pleased.

“If you would be so kind as to entertain me, I am curious as to how a young woman such as yourself came to possess such an astute awareness of her surroundings."

Nimileth looked at him curiously, almost a bit confused. "I have eyes," she said. "There's a little trick I like to do every now and then called 'looking through 'em.'"

Lucien tugged his bottom lip with his teeth, stifling an amused smile. "Let me be a bit more precise then. Where did you learn of the Dark Brotherhood, and how could I have given myself away?”

“Very well,” she began. “I’ll gladly tell you _after_ a proper introduction.”

He watched as she brought the goblet to her lips and downed its contents in several long gulps. She poured herself another cup.

“I’ll begin. My name is Nimileth. Nim is the name I prefer. I killed Countess Alessia Caro. Welcome to my home.” She leaned back again and crossed one arm over her chest, holding the other out with goblet at the ready.

As she sipped, her gaze grew distant, flickering away from Lucien's and to the wall behind him. She looked remarkably deep in thought and Lucien found himself unsure whether or not to interrupt to introduce himself. This was certainly not the way he imagined things going.

The Bosmer shook her head, focus returning to him, looking him over as though wondering why he was still there. “Whenever you’re ready,” she said mockingly. “I’d like to hear it in your own words. Tell me, why is it that you've broken into my house like a common street burglar? The suspense is practically killing me, and you don’t want me to die like this, do you?” 

The statement was true, and Lucien happily obliged.

“My name is Lucien Lachance," he said. "And I am indeed a Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood. I come to you with an offering, an opportunity to join our unique family.”

“That's what I thought,” she said with a nod, and chewed her bottom lip. She sighed, and Lucien couldn't tell whether it was out of dismay or disappointment. “I knew it the night you stood outside that shack in the Waterfront waiting for me to fall asleep. It was just a few nights following the assassination of Alessia Caro, good riddance.

“But it doesn’t take a scholar to put two and two together. A murder, a strange cloaked man in a chameleon shroud. I already suspected the rumors of the Dark Brotherhood were true, that they came in your sleep to recruit you. All it took was a fifty foot detect life spell to see you following me through every town I stopped in on my way back to Anvil. Not to mention, I've seen those robes before.”

“These robes?” Lucien asked, fascinated by the young elf's ability to maintain such an expressionless stare.

“I stole an identical pair along with a copy of _The Five Tenants_ and _The Brothers of Darkness _from the basement of a house in Bruma last year. Perhaps you know its owner? Like I said, it doesn’t take a scholar to put two and two together.”

Lucien knew exactly what house Nim was referring to. He remembered J’Ghasta meekly approaching Arquen about a new set of robes sometime last year.

_But how does one manage to lose a set of robes, Brother? They just disappeared? Are you certain that’s what happened? It’s not possible you could have, ahem, left them somewhere? Perhaps someone is holding onto them for you?_ Lucien could have sworn he saw the Khajiit blush, if that was even possible. 

“I admit I haven’t been this surprised by a recruit in years," he praised her. "No doubt, it is a sign from Sithis. He has need for your gifts."

"My gifts?"

"Your curiosity. Your initiative. He has guided you to the doors of the Dark Brotherhood, just as I have been guided to you. It is fate, sealed in the hollows of the Void. I am honored now to be the bearer of our family’s invitation.”

“I’m not sure I’m quite what you were expecting," Nim said with a soft shake of her head. "You see, I’m not really a murderer.”

Ah, the denial. Lucien loved the denial. 

“No?" He shot the woman a devilish smirk. "The Night Mother seems to think otherwise.”

“I was quite justified in killing that vile woman, you see. Therefore it wasn’t murder. Justice. That’s all it was. No need for guilt, no need for remorse. She deserved every ounce of pain I inflicted on her. It was a matter of necessity. Simple really,” Nim added, matter-of-factly.

“So you admit you are a cold-blooded killer, a harvester of souls, capable of taking life without mercy or remorse. The Night Mother has been watching, and she is most pleased with your work, your deathcraft, your-- ”

Caught mid-sip, Nim choked back a mouthful of wine. Lucien watched as it spilled from her chin, down to her neck, and pooled in the dip of her collar bones before sharp, abrupt laughter filled the room. Once again Lucien had to refrain himself from recoiling in shock. Even the cat jolted up from her curled position at the foot of the bed. It was the first genuine expression that Lucien could read from her, but what could he have possibly said to elicit such a reaction?

“Oh, excuse me,” Nim said, wiping a tear from her eye and releasing a long drawn out breath. “Phew!” 

He stared dumb-founded as she slammed her fist into her chest and attempted to clear her throat.

“Now let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Please do not mistake my indifference for enthusiasm, Mr. Lachance. I admit to killing the Countess, the horrid woman that she was, but only because I believed it had to be done. Justice, where it’s due. I don't kill the innocent. Steal from 'em, sure. Even lean on 'em a bit if I'm feeling tough. That hardly makes me a cold-blooded killer worthy of joining your ranks, does it?”

_I don't kill the innocent._

Lucien resisted the urge to scoff. While slightly disappointed by her facade of virtue, he knew the woman's poor excuse for morality could be reworked. She could be swayed to the path of the Dark Brotherhood, for she was a murderer now in the eyes of the Night Mother, whether she accepted it or not. He had no doubt in his mind that if he pressed ever so slightly, she too would heed the Sithis' call.

“But would you do it again if you believed it _‘just’_ as you might call it, if you believed it fair? Did you not enjoy making something right in your eyes by taking the life of someone you deemed wrong? Tell me, Nimileth, did you take pleasure in watching that wretched woman’s life leave her eyes?”

Nim paused, the blank stare returning as she wiped the streak of wine off the corner of her mouth.

“Yes,” she said flatly. “I’d do it ten times over.” 

“Walk with us, and we will show you how to harness that power, how to work it into something greater than yourself, something beautiful. Join us, and you'll find the Dark Brotherhood can offer you all that, and so much more.”

Nim sat silently eyeing the bottle of wine beside her. A long moment passed before she refilled her goblet and raised the bottle, motioning towards Lucien. He nodded. She poured.

“Please continue, Mr. Lachance. You have my undivided attention.”

“Ah, I must say find your etiquette most refreshing,” he said, offering her a smooth smile, velvety and dark much like the wine flowing into his glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I hope you enjoyed this first chapter. It is going to be a story filled with spice and angst, so please keep that in mind and check the TWs above if sensitive to certain themes. Slightly AU in parts, but nothing monumental :) 
> 
> Anyway, thanks so much for checking out the story, and please leave me a comment to let me know what you think!


	2. A Dark Thing

**Chapter 2: A Dark Thing **

Nim rummaged through her pantry in a panic. Surely she had picked up a tasteful vintage at some point since she moved into this house. Lately, she had been doing most of her drinking down at the Anvil docks and few individuals at _The Flowing Bowl_ cared much for expensive wines. Well, maybe they did _care_ for them, but pay for a bottle this expensive, they most certainly did not.

Nim offered up a prayer to the Divines above and nearly squealed in relief when she spied the cream label and purple lettering of a Tamika 399 hiding behind a crate of beer. She snatched it up, along with two silver goblets, and raced up to her bedroom where she repositioned her furniture, setting a chair out to face her. She would be having a guest soon, and she sure hoped he could appreciate a fine wine.

The man in question had been following her across Cyrodiil ever since she left the Waterfront. To Bruma, to Chorrol, and now here, to her house. And to think he had the gall to conceal himself beneath a chameleon shroud.

A _chameleon_ shroud.

Nim winced in second-hand embarrassment at the poor fool's misunderstanding of illusion magic when she watched his shimmering form flitter beneath the sun’s rays. It must have been a measly fifty percent strength at the most. Didn’t that idiot know chameleon was useless in broad daylight? All it took was a detect life spell to confirm he was indeed trailing behind her as she left the Waterfront.

_Fetching amateur._

By the time Nim had reached the Jemane brothers’ farmstead, she had begun to lose her nerve. Whatever the man wanted from her must have been important. Why else would he continue stalking her? She couldn’t imagine how boring it must have been for him, following her through the cities while she ran numerous mundane errands over the past three days.

From the window of the farmhouse, she had watched cautiously as the man rested against a tree. She didn’t sleep that night. She hadn't been sleeping much those nights at all. Small comfort it was when she realized that the man was clearly unaware of her watchful presence, because as midnight loomed over him, he let his shroud fall. Using her Night-Eye spell to glimpse him in the distance, she found that the man donned a familiar set of black robes. Her heart fell three feet within her chest when she recognized them, and that night, she left through the farthest window from where he sat in waiting.

Now, Nim stood in her bedroom at Benirus Manor. Now she was waiting for him. She refreshed her detect life spell, confirming her suspicions as a large aura glowed at the bottom of the staircase outside her bedroom door. She readied herself for bed, stripping off her day clothes and changing into a pair of fresh blue undergarments. It wasn’t the most practical choice for a meeting with one's stalker, but he was a man and if he fancied women maybe, just maybe, a bit of skin would give her a slight advantage. A distraction if nothing else. She strapped an elven dagger to her thigh and crawled beneath the silk covers.

Her mind raced with questions. He had made his first appearance in the days following her murder of Countess Alessia Caro, and he was dressed in that unmistakable set of black robes, a set nearly identical to the ones she had stolen from that house in Bruma several years ago. She remembered the books she had stolen along with it- _Brothers of Darkness _and _The Five Tenets._ Was this man a member of the Dark Brotherhood? She had heard rumors of them before. They said that when you murdered someone, the Dark Brotherhood came to you in your sleep. It was how they recruited new members.

It was true- she had killed. But maybe the man was not here to recruit her. Maybe he was here on contract.

_No_, she told herself with a gentle shake of her head as she worked her hair into a long braid. He had numerous opportunities to kill her while she travelled the roads alone, and it would allowed for a much cleaner disposal. Chop up the pieces and dump them in the woods for the wolves. That’s how she would have done it.

Her stomach lurched. Maybe he didn’t want a swift kill. Maybe it wasn’t about the practicality, the efficiency of getting a job done. Maybe it was about the rush, the sport of it. Nim shuddered. She didn’t know how deranged bands of murderers worked, and she certainly did not count herself among their ranks.

The man ascended the stairs slowly. She heard the soft _click _of the lockpick working against the tumblers and with a small wave of her hand, released the lock with an alteration spell.

“Come in.”

The voice in her throat was calm, not at all what she was feeling as her blood turned to frost. The man entered and she let her flame find the wicks of the candles set around the room. Now illuminated in the dim light, she could see him, albeit shadowed, beneath his hood. A roguish Imperial man with dark features. Middle aged. Medium height. Athletic Build. He was covered head to toe in the black robes she had seen before.

And he was undeniably Dark Brotherhood.

“Please, sit with me.” A paralyze spell danced on the tip of her tongue as she watched him draw closer. He made no sudden movements. He too, looked surprise, not unpleasantly so as he held her gaze.

She offered him a drink, sweeping her hand across the table and praying to the Nine that she wouldn’t knock anything over. He accepted and she uncorked the bottle with a telekinesis spell. By now, he must have caught on that she was a mage. She hoped her little parlor tricks were enough to convince him that fighting her would be less preferable alternative to sitting down for a brief chat over fine wine. She wouldn’t go down easily at least.

* * *

Lucien Lachance, a Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood, had left her with an ebony dagger and a brief set of instructions. Kill this old man, and welcome Sithis into your heart. Whatever a _Sithis _was, she had no idea, but the first half she understood. The task seemed simple enough to follow. Simple, sinister, and entirely morally depauperate.

Lucien had laughed when she asked why Rufio was wanted dead. "_Somebody else seeks justice," _he had told her. What had this Rufio done to beget a bounty?

She contemplated her options when he took his leave.

_What excuse do I have to end another life? _She watched the candle light dance in the reflection of the black dagger that laid across her lap. The offer had rattled her to the core, left her with a twisting, gnawing sensation burrowing into her stomach, and she could only contribute it to guilt. But still the offer had enthralled her. She could not reconcile the two emotions.

_How will this end_, she couldn’t help thinking? She had considered herself a Gods-fearing woman ever since she left the Daedric worship of her coven those many years ago. She wasn't without her vices, but she wasn't evil, was she? One well-placed arrow into the jugular of a truly wicked woman, and now she was a murderer? The two hardly seemed equivalent.

She meditated on the commandments of the Divines. _Above all else, be good to one another._

Nim rose swiftly from her bed and splashed her face with tepid water from the washing bowl on her dresser. Staring into her dull, cracked hand mirror, she watched the droplets roll off her chin and grimaced. Kynareth had blessed her with an agile, capable form. Dibella had given her charm and symmetry. Stendarr granted her compassion and mercy to protect the weak, and through the wisdom of Julianos, she knew better than to ignore the truth and unfairness in this world.

Alessia Caro’s death had been the cure to a blight that ravaged the fields of southern Cyrodiil. She was an evil woman, _truly _evil. Her death, she could justify. Julianos knew the Countess would not receive justice at the hands of the law, and though it was up to the Gods to determine punishment in the afterlife, in this life, justice would not deliver itself.

She thought of J'rasha, her lover long gone. Perhaps now his soul could rest easy. Perhaps now, he would find the peace he deserved.

Shaking the water loose from her hair, Nim returned to bed. Sleep did not find her easily, and instead she lay tossing and turning in the darkness as her hypocrisy haunted her. Despite the years that had settled since she parted ways from Mephala's coven, the call of the Webspinner's teaching still echoed at her ears, beckoning through the laughing silence. She felt like a fraud.

Despite the hours at chapel, the alms she had paid, Nim had always lived with one foot in the sphere of avarice and appetite as a thief. She used her gifts from the Divines to manipulate and rob the people around her on a daily basis. But was she remorseful?

No. Not truly. It had always been this way. She sinned. She repented. She transgressed again. Mephala, the mother of her secrets, spun a silk web of hidden guilt and eternal shame around her, and it had _always_ been this way. Should it be any surprise that she now found herself a murderer?

And what of the man, this Lucien, who had visited her? 

Despite so rudely trespassing into her home, he seemed civil in conversation. Off, but civil. A little old-fashioned even. But mostly _off. _He murdered for a living, recruited others to murder alongside him, and he had sat right across from her bed drinking her wine. That was the most terrifying part about him, the calm resonance of his voice as he spoke of murder and the glory within it.

And it was bewitching, alarmingly so, not the man himself but his claims of dark, ancient knowledge, of mysteries that lie only in the void. She had never heard of _The Night Mother _or _The Dread Father_ before, but the promise of secret truths had enchanted her. It stirred a visceral thirst within her. She was a daughter of Mephala, a seeker of knowledge after all.

The murder of the Countess had changed her tapestry. Her path had been diverted. It was just as the hymn of the Webspinner goes: _Pluck one thread and the whole weave comes undone._

Whatever the Dark Brotherhood was offering her was bound to cost a piece of her soul. Nim did not sleep that night.

* * *

At the Inn of Ill Omens, Rufio appeared untouched. His hands lay pressed together beneath his head, eyes gently closed as though still deep in slumber. There were no signs of struggle, not even a stray wrinkle in the bedsheets. The Blade of Woe remained pure for another day, and Nim stepped back as her racing heart slowed to a rhythmic beat.

She had designed the killing spell in her beginner’s spell-crafting class the past winter. A mix of paralyze and drain health. What would the other mages say to her if they knew? Murdering an old man days away from deaths door was far from an impressive feat. It was despicable, yet she felt pleased with the discreteness of her work none-the-less. No one would know she was ever there at all, and if there was anything she claimed to be an expert at, it was disappearing.

Slipping out of the basement through the hatch was simple, as all the inn dwellers, including its proprietor, were fast asleep. Nim stepped out into the humid summer night and guessed it must have been past two in the morning by the quilt of stars above. She made her way to the Fargeyl Inn down the road where she had rented a room in anticipation of fleeing the scene of the crime. She scaled the wall, thankful that the window she had opened was still cracked slightly, and once safe in her room, she stripped off her clothes and pulled the thin bedsheets over her body.

She thought of Rufio. What kind of man had he been? 

The thrill had faded. The adrenaline rush was quelled. Nim waited for the rolling turmoil and shame to flood her, make her ill, make her sick. It did not.

_How curious_.

After all the recent travel, her body yearned for at least one adequate night of rest, and she gave in quickly, pressing thought from he mind. Hopefully, Lucien would not come to find her until she returned to Anvil. There was no way the Speaker could have known the request had been fulfilled so quickly, and she was in no rush to be trespassed upon again.

Much to her chagrin, she soon learned that she had no say in the matter whatsoever.

“So the deed is done,” a sonorous voice called out from the dark of the room.

Nim gasped as she sat up. At the table in far corner sat a cloaked figure that had not been there when she entered. Through the stray beams of moonlight, she caught only the outline of man, and beneath the hood, the shadow of a smirk on his lips.

"Lucien?"

The man's smile grew, and it was a dark thing, as dark as the silk that adorned him.

“Have you- have you been there this entire time?” She hiked her sheet above her chest, shielding her scantily clad body from him. Despite having been in a near identical scenario not forty-eight hours prior, she now felt incredibly exposed in the presence of this stranger. She wondered if this was the scenario he was accustomed to. The startled recruit, powerless and wide-eyed.

Lucien nodded.

"Have you been... following me?"

“I have.” 

Nim combed through her disheveled hair, attempting to dampen the storm-cloud of fear growing in her chest. “I really don’t think that was necessary," she said, clearing her voice, loosening the nerves there that had grown too tight. "You weren't even certain that I was planning to kill him. You mean to say you've had nothing better to do than follow me around for no reason?”

“Not for no reason,” he corrected her. “When we spoke in Anvil, I saw the vicious spark of curiosity take to flame in your eyes. You are a child of the Night Mother, truly. I knew you would join us, and here you sit before me now."

Nim said nothing, simply narrowed her eyes, a cynical frown growing on her face as Lucien continued.

"Sithis has called upon you, and you have embraced his chaos. The slaying of Rufio was the signing of our covenant. The manner of execution, your signature. Rufio's blood, the ink.”

Nim had no idea what the man was talking about. Sithis? Covenant? They were assassins, nothing more than homicidal cutthroats who took gold in payment for blood. Why did he make it sound like she had sold her soul to a Daedric cult? And if Nim knew one thing about Daedric cults, it was that she had little desire to return. She scrunched her face in growing displeasure, lips pursed and brows furrowed. His superfluous speech did not impress her.

“Rufio lies dead," Lucien said. "Well done. The family will now welcome you with open arms.” He paused, as though waiting for her to speak. She had accepted his invitation promptly, killing Rufio with what could only be attributed to enthusiasm, but now she simply glared at him, irritated. 

“You prefer silence, then?" he chuckled. "As do I, my dear child. As do I. For is silence not the symphony of death, the orchestration of Sithis himself?”

Nim rolled onto her side and propped herself upon her elbow. She studied the man for a long moment. “What do you mean ‘_Sithis_?’”

Lucien smiled, deeply. It was a sinister thing that seemed to transform his dark features entirely to shadow. “Chaos. Doom. Discord," he told her. "Sithis is the Void.”

The man stood to his feet, and as he stepped forward, Nim pushed herself backward against her pillows. She watched silently as he sat down at the foot of her bed, and he held her gaze, his eyes a deep hickory brown that obscured the madness roiling behind them. Nim didn’t object when he laid his hand over the sheet covering her foot, didn't even flinch although she wanted to.

“Imagine a perfect, cloudless midnight, cold as winter ice and shrouded in shadow,” Lucien crooned, his blithe tone full of adoration. “He is the endless shape of shade, the emptiness that fills abyss. That is the Dread Father.”

Hearing the assassin speak with such honeyed, loving resonance made Nim inexplicably squeamish. And his explanation still made no sense.

She shifted in the covers and rested her head in her palm. Suppressing a sigh, she resigned herself to the fact that continuing the conversation was futile. She hadn’t slept much at all since Lucien had begun to follow her and she desperately needed rest. She closed her eyes as Lucien prattled on. His voice was pleasant despite the macabre nature of his words. It was rich and empty all at once. Warm but temporary. Like cinders.

Nim thought she heard something about a _Night Mother_, a _Listener_, _Four Fingers_ and a_ Thumb--_

That couldn’t be right. She was exhausted and as he continued on, Lucien’s descriptions were becoming more and more verbose and metaphorical. She was not willing to parse through the ambiguity in such a state of sleep deprivation.

Nim yawned. “You sure say a lot of words for someone who claims to prefer silence.”

“My burden to bear as a Speaker for our family.”

_Our family_, he had said. She hadn't heard those words together in a long time.

Lucien told her of an abandoned house in the city of Cheydinhal, a sanctuary that was to be her new home.

"And where will you go?" She asked him.

"I go where Sithis says I must."

Nim said no more to him that night. She fell soundly asleep as the conversation trailed off, never noticing that the man remained in her room long after she had drifted out of consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heheh, I am having so much fun wirting these chapters! I hope you are enjoying it everyone, and thanks for reading!
> 
> And just FYI, this is the second installment of Nim's story, but you don't reeaaally need to read the first to understand. There will be returning characters and references to the events of part 1 (To New Beginnings and Old Conclusions) which is just one click away if you're interested.


	3. Home, Its Cold Loving Embrace

**Chapter 3: Home, Its Cold Loving Embrace**

Nim blinked furiously at the neat little row of beds before her and wished immediately to return home. She had spent the majority of her life sleeping in cramped living quarters; the orphanage, the servants' wing of Castle Kvatch, drifting from house to house with J’rasha and the rest of their skooma-dealing gang. Up until only a few months ago, she was sleeping on the floor of Methredhel’s shack along with Carwen and Adanrel. Compared to this musty, stone dungeon below Cheydinhal's streets, Methredhel's house seemed palatial. At least there was a window. A cracked window sure, but from it the view of Lake Rumare was clear, breathtaking at dawn. And now that Nim owned her own property in the sunny seaside town of Anvil, she had no intention on sharing her sleeping space with anyone else ever again.

_At least it’s a bed and not a bedroll_, she told herself, but her discomfort was in no way alleviated by the fact that she would be sharing these sleeping quarters with seven other assassins, several of which she had met only an hour ago. The rest were still strangers. 

Deadly strangers.

Strangers that spilled blood for coin.

“This bed and chest are yours, Sister.” Ocheeva, the Sanctuary’s mistress, pointed toward the bed at the end of the row. Nim did not mention that she had little intention to use it. “We passed the washroom on the way in. Not much room for privacy, but I assure our family has nothing but respect for one another.”

Nim set her new suit of shrouded armor on the bed and shifted awkwardly on her feet. “Thank you," she said, trying her best to appear composed and genuine. "And where do the remaining brothers and sisters sleep?”

“Pardon?”

“Well there are only six beds. Lucien- er, our Speaker told me that there were eight others in this Sanctuary beside him and I.”

“As Executioners Vicente and I have our own quarters."

"Executioners?" Nim asked, eyes wide.

Ocheeva chuckled warmly at the mild shock spreading on the elf's features. "It's just a title, dear Sister. Vicente will explain it all to you soon enough. Now, who am I forgetting. Ah, yes. Lorise has a house here in Cheydiinhal. I'm sure you'll run into her in between contacts. She's quite fond of the training room and... well I'll let Vicente explain the rest.”

"Lorise?" Nim recognized the name. Could it be? "Lorise Audenius? The arena Grand Champion?"

Ocheeva nodded with a closed lip smile, and Nim blinked rapidly in disbelief. She had never personally seen the woman fight in an arena match, but she had read the papers and heard the gossip from the Imperial City's citizens. An arena combatant in the Dark Brotherhood... it really shouldn't have been such a surprise. To dedicate that much time to mastering the art of the kill - well, one must be some degree of unhinged in order to make a life out of murder.

A wave of self-doubt struck Nim across the chest as she thought forward to meeting the Grand Champion. The people of Cyrodiil had titled Lorise _The Butcher_ for reasons that required little imagination to envision. Were all the assassins here equally competent fighters? Was she expected to perform at such an elite level too? Nim felt herself growing increasingly insecure and out of place as she stared at the suit of shrouded armor on her bed. What a dreadful mistake she had made! 

Soft laughter pierced her thoughts, and she looked up to see Ocheeva once more smiling at her own bemused expression

"Yes, Lorise is a bit of a local celebrity," the Argonian explained, "but you'd never know it by speaking with her. Humble thing, really. All that extra gold from her matches, she could buy a house in every city if she so pleased."

“Ah, it must be very convenient to live so close.” Though secretly, Nim was not envious. There was already a foul presence that sat on a throne in the court of Anvil. It was one thing to live in a city where a retired Master Thief ruled as Count. She wasn’t sure she could handle living in a city that allowed a guild of assassins to run loose beneath the ground. “And Lucien?” she asked.

“Our Speaker does not live in the Sanctuary, though he visits as his responsibilities permit."

"And, um, what exactly are his responsibilities, if I may ask?

"He delivers new contracts for Vicente and I to distribute, and he recruits new talent into our family, such as yourself," Ocheeva said, her eyes bright and luminescent under the lambent light of the wall sconces.

"Oh. How keen."

This news relieved her and she let her shoulders relax slightly as she gazed around the musty living chamber. As charismatic as he was, the Speaker's presence had unnerved her greatly, and she was not looking forward to hearing him try to explain the concept of Sithis to her again. Before either she or Ocheeva could muster out another word, the silence was swiftly interrupted by a loud bang. The heavy wooden door of the living quarters slammed into stone, then slammed again, back and forth against the wall. 

“It’s true! Our new sister has arrived!” A high-pitched squeal sailed into the room. The sound of pattering footsteps followed closely behind.

“Oh, Antoinetta, let’s calm down now," cried Ocheeva with subtly veiled exasperation. "Nim only arrived today. Please give her time to settle in.” 

Nim turned around to greet the new voice with a forced, uneasy smile. Hardly a foot in front of her stood a petite blonde Breton bouncing on the tips of her toes. She quickly shrugged her travel pack to the floor, and Nim looked down to see a rat the size of a small dog sitting on its haunches beside the woman. It stared straight up at her. 

“Oh my," the Breton whispered, and for but a second, Nim saw the woman’s cheery grin quiver. "Another pretty little wood elf.” She scanned the Bosmer up and down, but something in her icy blue eyes looked displeased. Nim grew increasingly tense. She couldn’t help but feel as though she had heard something unwelcoming mingled in with the greeting. Was that a hint disappointment? 

The woman reached out for a small lock of Nim’s disheveled hair, and Nim froze, trying very hard not to let her smile fall as she looked to Ocheeva for reassurance. Ocheeva only sighed and shook her head back and forth with her palm pressed flat against her forehead. 

“This makes you the third Bosmer in our sanctuary,” Ocheeva said after a needlessly long silence was allowed to fill the room. “I expect you’ll meet Telaendril and Lorise shortly. Makes you wonder if there’s something in the water down there in Valenwood.”

Nim attempted to correct the Argonian. “Oh, I’m not from--“ 

“And just look at that hair, glowing like an oak on fire,” Antoinetta interrupted. She reached out and brushed through another lock of the elf's hair, inspecting the rusted hue, attempting to discern whether it was more brown than red. She spoke with such distance in her voice that Nim was unconvinced that the Breton was actually speaking to her at all. The girl eyed her up and down several times in the way Nim imagined an Orc might eye a horse when deciding whether to use it as a faithful steed or for dinner.

“Where are my manners," she beamed, the excitement in her voice snapping back like the wick of a candle taking to flame. "Welcome, dear sister! I am Antoinetta Marie. I hope you have been enjoying your tour of the Sanctuary. You have been given a tour, right? If not, I'd be only too happy to show you. Oh please, you must let me show you!”

“Thank you," Nim eked out. "It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She was half a second away from fully extending her hand toward the Breton, when Antoinetta pulled her into a massive hug. Despite the two being nearly the same height, Antoinetta stood on her toes and wrapped her arms around the Bosmer's head, enveloping her entire form in her spindly, pale arms.

“That’s quite enough, Netta,” Ocheeva chided, her brow ridges narrowing. “You’ll suffocate the poor girl.”

Antoinetta pulled away and released a satisfied breath. She looked Nim up and down again, this time while smiling. Nim waited, expecting Antoinetta to make another remark, but the woman simply stared.

“Right,” Ocheeva drawled eyeing the Breton curiously. “I’ll leave you two to get settled. Antoinetta, don’t... overwhelm, Nim, please. I’ll be in my quarters should you need me.” She nodded cheerfully and left, pulling on the door handle behind her. Nim watched longingly as the door closed shut.

With Ocheeva gone, Antoinetta clapped her hands and rubbed them furiously against each other. Her eyes were wide as saucers.

“I must know all about you! I can just tell we are going to be the best of friends,” she said and plopped down on Nim's bed. Nim stood still and speechless, shrugging helplessly as Antoinetta regarded her. Suddenly she felt the tickle of whiskers against her shins and looked down to see the rat poking its nose beneath the hem of her skirt. 

"Hello," she said to the rat. It did not reply.

"That's Schemer," Antoinetta told her. "He's a good rat, won't bite or nothing. All he wants to do is eat, isn't that right, you fat, fat, fatty." The rat chirped in agreement, and Nim found herself smiling as she reached down to pet it. She had seen stranger pets before. This she could get used to.

“Tell me, where are you from?" Antoinetta began again, her eyes so wide and blue they looked unreal. "Is Nim short from Nimriel? No? How about Nimandrehl or Nimandredehl? Have you been in Cyrodiil for long? My, you look so young! May I ask how old you are?”

Nim calmly replied that Nim was short for Nimileth, and that she had lived in Cyrodiil all of her life, omitting the fact that she never even knew where she was born. She paused before giving her age, debated whether or not to lie in order to avoid the same response she always received when she divulged said information. She shrugged and told her that she was twenty.

“Twenty, my goodness! Merely a child. You could have said you were fourteen, and I wouldn’t be any wiser. So young for a murderer. Hard life? Must have had some rough…”

With a stifled sigh, Nim began to zone out, as she usually did when people blabbered on about her juvenile appearance. It wasn't her fault she was malnourished as a child, and she certainly didn't need a reminder. She did her best to maintain a closed lip grin and gave the occasional nod as she stared through Antoinetta and to the wall behind her. Moss-lined stone greeted her, so thick in some placed that it filled the grout like a soft, green river. Nim shuddered to think of the spores of mold in the air, and tore her gaze away. It fell to Schemer, and he nuzzled her leg affectionately. Yes, she could get used to a roommate like him.

“...reminds me of myself at that age," Antoinetta said, causing Nim to snap her focus back to the woman. "I was out on the streets before I was welcomed into our family. For that, I will always consider Lucien Lachance my savior. He pulled me out of the gutter when I was mere inches away from death.”

“Truly?" Nim asked and hummed curiously. "I would never have pegged him for the heroic type.” No, Nim did not pick up on that aura at all. A lurker. An ominous shadow in the corner of your room when you squint your eyes. A little spidery even, but most certainly not a guardian. 

“Why Lucien is truly the kindest man I know," Antoinetta said, nodding aggressively. "He brought me here where I have the safety and love I’ve searched for all my life."

"Oh! Well, um, how lovely for you."

"And he raised Ocheeva and Tienaava from hatchlings."

"Did he now?" That later tidbit of information surprised Nim even more. A fatherly figure was about the last thing she could imagine the Speaker as, and she hoped for the Argonians sake that he was a better educator of things non-Sithis than her first impression had made him out to be.

"Truly a gentleman." Antoinetta said dotingly. "We're all indebted to him for bringing us together. Family is so important, after all. If we don't have each other, then what do we have? Don't you think?” She smiled again, but squinted her eyes a bit more, turning her cheerful grin somewhat disquieting.

“Oh, of course," Nim quickly replied with a nod.

Antoinetta sat there with an eager expression, as though expecting Nim to continue, and the elf fidgeted with the chain of her amulet as she realized she had nothing more to say on the matter. She had plenty of friends in her life, friends she would risk her own skin for, but as an orphan, family was a foreign word she seldom spoke. Truthfully, she found these affectionate familial titles rather melodramatic, and despite everyone’s seemingly warm welcome, she was no closer to accepting the Dark Brotherhood as anything more than an eccentric band of murderers. 

“And what do you think about him?" Antoinetta leaned closer to Nim and blinked up at her with those bright, blue eyes. "Isn't he a gift from the Void itself?" 

“Who?”

“Our esteemed Speaker, of course,” she giggled.

“Lucien? Ah, you know I’ve not thought much about him.”

“Oh, you’re so funny sister.”

Nim pursed her lips in confusion. “How is that funny?”

She had not said a joke and Antoinetta was not laughing. She was staring intently into Nim as though if she stared hard enough, she might see into the grooves of her brain.

“What was it like when you met him?” she asked, but Nim only shrugged. "Come on, tell me," the Breton pressed, and though her voice was still the warm, bubbly lilt that she had donned earlier, her smile had dimmed. Her stare was hungered, probing, and Nim looked away to avoid the intensity of it before it pierced her like a needle.

“Well, um.. fairly discomforting, but I’m sure we received the same spiel. Some murder here, some glory there. What about you? Why do you ask—“

Suddenly, the creak of rusted door hinges echoed against the stone walls.

"Ah, Nimileth!" A stranger called from across the room and cut her off, much to her relief. "I see you’ve made it here safely."

Nim spun around to greet the new assassin, and even while facing away, she could feel Antoinetta’s eyes boreing into the back of her head. She found a pale man in dark clothing paused in the arch doorway.

"Oh, excuse me," he apologized. "Have I interrupted you two?“

“No,” Nim said, perhaps too eagerly, and she hoped no one else heard the desperation in her voice. "Please, join us.”

The man, a Breton from Highrock it seemed from his accent, smiled at Nim before proceeding into the living quarters. She regarded him quickly, not wanting to stare for too long. He wore his long brown hair tied back, framing his very Breton-like bone structure, all angles and sharp features. Although there was nothing unpleasant about his features, from where Nim stood, she couldn’t help but feel there was there was something slightly awry about his appearance. Then again, everyone seemed to be a little awry in this place.

“Vicente Valtieri. A pleasure to finally meet you,” he said softly and reached for the Bosmer’s hand. It was ice cold, she noted, and she stared at it for slightly longer than was publicly appropriate. Vicente gave her a knowing look with unusually colorless eyes. He gently squeezed the hand in his as he pumped it up and down, which seemed to convey to Nim that yes, he did hear the desperation in her voice.

“Our Speaker has spoken quite highly of you," he praised her. "I’ve not seen him so impressed by a new recruit in years. I’m quite interested in learning why exactly that is.”

“Yes, Sister! We are all dying to hear,” Antoinetta interrupted, pulling Schemer into her lap and quickly shifting to a cross-legged position on the bed. She clasped her hands together and beamed with an eagerness that Nim found unsettling at best, predatory at worst.

“But in due time,” Vicente quickly added, throwing a sideways glance at the enthusiastic Breton. “I’m sure we will all hear eventually. Please, join me in my quarters, Nimileth. As Executioner, I provide assignments to all new family members. We have much to discuss now that you are here.”

_Executioner, how original, _Nim thought to herself. She said farewell to Antoinetta and Schemer, promising to continue their conversation later, and followed after Vicente like a good little minion of darkness. 

* * *

Vicente noted the Bosmer's sigh of relief upon entering his quarters and finding it empty. He motioned toward the chair at the table and took a seat across from her. She stared at him silently, and he could feel her inspecting him although she never broke eye contact. He took this moment to inspect her as well. She was small, even for a Bosmer. Her hair was a rich shade of auburn that reminded him of a late autumn leaves. Her dark eyes were disproportionately large for her face which gave her an innocent, childlike appearance, and Vicente wondered if she was perhaps still a child. It wouldn’t be the first time one had been recruited into their ranks. Looking harmless and unsuspecting was certainly a useful trait for an assassin. 

As he continued to stare, Nim shifted nervously. She seemed to be aware that he was scrutinizing every detail of her face. She turned her head to the side.

“Would you like to see my profile?" she asked. "What about a three-quarter view?”

Vicente grinned as the woman turned her head to strike a pose.

“Yes, it’s all quite a lot to take in,” he said with a faint laugh. “I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. Please, if at any point you feel overwhelmed, let me know. I am more than happy to give you some space, even lend you my quarters as a quiet place if you need room to breathe.”

Her next words surprised him.

“Vicente, are you dead..er, I mean undead? No." She shook her head firmly. "I mean... are you a vampire?“

And at that, he watched the girls bronze skin flush red.

He was taken aback, not offended of course. It was the truth, and he had planned to tell her in a few minutes. In the past, this had usually been the first thing he would tell recruits as most found his appearance _unnerving_, but in the past, he was not feeding so regularly and looked much more the part of a 300 year-old vampire than he currently did. Now on his regular feeding schedule, he looked the same age as he had been when he was infected- a ripe forty-two. 

“I just noticed that you haven’t blinked or inhaled at all since we were introduced," she said, still blushing but trying hard not to look embarrassed. Vicente found the expression endearing. “Gods, how incredibly rude of me. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to come out that way. I was simply curious.”

_Ah, so she is as observant as the Speaker had insisted_. Vicente wanted to laugh but controlled himself in fear of embarrassing the girl any further. What else had she noticed about the Sanctuary, about the other family members, about Lucien? He found himself growing increasingly interested and released only one soft chuckle before addressing her concerns.

“Yes, I forget to do that sometimes,” he confessed. 

She nodded slowly, his words sinking in. He waited for her response. Surprise, fear, disgust, anything, but the girl sat still and unflinching.

“Have you ever met a vampire before, Nimileth?” 

She turned her head to the side, as though beginning to shake her head ‘no.’ Vicente watched as she paused. Her muscles tensed. 

“Yes,” she finally squeaked out.

“Really?” He didn’t bother containing his surprise. _And where on Nirn would you have done that_ ? He contained his urge to ask, sensing that Nimileth would not be receptive to such forward questions. Most often, meeting a Vampire was not a pleasant experience. 

“But I don’t fit the mold, then do I?" he asked. "Otherwise you wouldn’t look nearly as tense as you do now.”

Nim tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and squinted her eyes as though that would help her inspect him better. 

“Well, I’ve never seen one in the light before,” she replied.

Vicente didn’t prod further even though he so desperately wanted to know more. If she wanted to offer up more information, she could, but he would not pry.

To his disappointment, Nim did not continue. He stared at her smiling, unblinking, holding himself still as a stone. If there was anything he could do indefinitely, it was sit there as though he was a corpse because it just so happened that he was one.

Nim copied the Vampire’s behavior. She sat there for a few minutes, her chest softly rising and falling as Vicente remained frozen. As the seconds grew longer her expression shifted to surprise and then disappointment, as though discouraged by meeting someone who could stare silently as long as she could. Vicente contained his laughter as she sighed, realizing he easily had her beat, and she cleared her throat, leaning forward in her chair to rest her arms on the table. 

“I thought all Vampires were supposed to be weathered and wrinkled, with skin pulled over their faces in this unevenly taut manner,” she said and mimed the action as though stretching a mask over her face. “I thought that even while frozen in time, their unnatural essence would still betray their true age. I suppose I’ve only ever met rather old ones. You see, in books I have been led to believe vampires are either grotesque monsters or supernaturally attractive beings in possession of an otherworldly allure.”

_More than one? _He raised a brow. “And which description do you agree with?”

Nim took a hard look at the vampire in front of her, eyes squinted and brows furrowed. “The latter appears to be more consistent with my experiences, but even then, they've always looked old,” she said after some deliberation. “You don't. Did you look… like this when you were still alive?“

"Like what?"

"Mmm," she hummed. "Prepossessing."

Vicente chuckled warmly and gave a small shake of his head.

“You flatter me, Sister, but in fairness, I don’t always look this human. The longer one goes without feeding the stronger they become, but the more their true age shows. Whatever Vampire you met before that left you with such an impression must not have been well-fed. I am 300 years old, believe it or not. My duties as Executioner keep me in the Sanctuary most days. Here my strength and vampiric powers are of little use. I have the luxury of feeding my ego, and so I do. To be frank, I missed my smooth skin. It seems vanity persists even after many centuries.”

He watched the girl’s shoulders relax and she smiled for the first time in his presence. She opened her mouth as though to say something but simply snickered quietly to herself.

He raised an eyebrow. “What’s that? Something on your mind?”

“It's just.. Well, that's quite a lot of V's. Vicente Valtieri the Vampire. With alliteration like that, I imagine a bard could spin some compelling tales about you. And an assassin no less! Three centuries - I doubt you’ve spent all that time in this basement. You must have been alive during the defeat of Jagar Tharn, the Invasion of Akavir, the rise and the fall of the Camoran Usurper. The tales that you could sing.”

Vicente’s face split into a wide grin, for he too was a fan of alliteration. In his unnatural lifespan, he had plenty of time to master the lute and lyre, but alas, he couldn’t carry a tune to save his life. A famous bard, he would never be.

“So... how did it happen? I’ve read that not all cases of vampirism have the same cause.” Nim paused suddenly. Vicente thought she was like a spasming muscle, tensing and relaxing and tensing and relaxing with no rhyme or reason. “I’m sorry, I’m just very curious,” she continued. “I’m sure every new recruit you meet with asks you the same questions about your affliction- er, condition.”

“Some do. Many do not. Please, if you have questions, I am an open book.” 

And Vicente proved true to his word. He happily answered her questions regarding the origin of his curse, his diet, the inconveniences he faced, and the strengths he had gained. He answered all 27 of them, each of which she asked as enthusiastically as the one before.

Nim was bubbling over with excitement as they discussed the alchemical properties of vampire dust and the enchantments he used to prevent sun damage. She even suggested a salve of bone meal, frost salts, and dragon’s tongue to increase resistance to the damaging effects of the sun’s flare. Vicente didn’t bother telling her that he was already familiar with such a potion. He was just happy that he didn’t have to turn to stone again to get her to speak.

So far, the girl was making a wonderful first impression. Observant, genuine, charming, and she could match him in a staring contest better than any mortal he had met before. More than either of those, despite how young she appeared, she was very well-read in Tamrielic history and the Arcane arts. One might be surprised to find that intelligence was not very often an assassin’s greatest strength.

“So tell me Nimileth, is there some fascination you have with the undead?” Vicente asked, before seriously considering whether the girl was a necromancer. During their discussion, she had casually mentioned the creation of black soul gems, wondering if they could be used to harness the life force of something that was no longer mortal. Vicente had heard rumors of such things. He had never desired to test them out.

He remembered that Lucien had told him that this newest recruit was skilled mage, killing Rufio with just a wave of her hand. Vicente had assumed this was mere over-exaggeration given the Speakers flair for the dramatics, but he sensed that magicka flowed heavily within her when they first shook hands. From their conversation, he could not yet determine her preferred school. Destruction mages often bore the faintest hint of char hanging in the air around them unless they practiced strictly with frost. He thought for a moment he had taken a whiff of it.

“I have a fascination with a great many things,” Nim replied. “I think you are a wise and powerful being. I doubt I’ll have an opportunity to speak so candidly with another vampire. Thank you for answering my questions, but I fear we’ve gone off on a tangent.” 

“Nonsense.” Vicente waved his hand dismissively. “We’re getting to know each other. This is good considering we will be working very closely in your first months here.”

“Hmm, if that is true, I should let you know that I prefer to go by Nim, and I suppose you’ll be wanting to ask me a few questions too.”

“If you don’t mind, of course. Everyone in the Sanctuary is curious about you.”

"I have no idea why that may be," she snorted, "but I certainly hope you aren’t expecting too much. I'm painfully simple. Please, ask away. It’s only fair.”

“Fair,” Vicente repeated. “An interesting concept for one who lives as unorthodox a life as we do. Some call us heartless monsters who kill without remorse. What does that word mean to you?”

Nim replied after a moment of hesitation. “Justice where justice is due, I suppose,” she said with a shrug.

“Our Speaker told me you would say something like that.” As soon as the sentence left his lips, Nim scrunched her face in obvious displeasure. Vicente frowned. It was certainly not the response he had anticipated.

What had he said to illicit such a reaction? The only thing Vicente could think of was mention of the Speaker. Lucien always presented himself as a mysterious figure, and most recruits were curious to hear what he thought of them. Many were even more eager to impress him. 

“You needn’t worry. Lucien spoke very highly of your meeting,” he said, hoping to reassure her, but that seemed to only bring about more discomfort. He found himself wondering if there was a sore spot between Nim and the Speaker already. What had transpired at their meeting? Perhaps it was better to change the subject. “Is it true you are responsible for the assassination of Countess Alessia Caro?”

“It is," she said with a slight hiss, the irritation weighing on her features. She stared intently at the center of the table. "Does the whole guild know of that?”

Ah, so it wasn’t Lucien. It was a matter of privacy.

“Not to my knowledge," Vicente said. "Lucien told only Ocheeva and I, but I can’t guarantee she hasn’t spoken of it to others.”

“I see."

“Well if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few things that will be useful to know as your primary trainer.” Vicente clasped his hands together and set them on the table. He waited for a sign of approval.

She gave a small nod.

“How old are you?’

“Twenty.”

Vicente was sure she was even younger than that. Of course, being a small Bosmer didn’t help. He thought about mentioning this, but something told him she wouldn’t be too fond of his bringing it up.

“Not the youngest we’ve had join our family before, in case you were wondering,” he said instead.

“I’m not surprised. I know all too well the desperations of poverty."

“Where is your family?”

“Dead." A curt reply, then her expression softened. "I think. Never knew them either way.”

“As is typical for many of our recruits. I hope you know we are sincere in welcoming you to ours.”

“Yes, I believe you.” 

“What school of magic are you most skilled in?”

“Illusion, followed closely by destruction.”

“Where would a young woman with no family have learned such a skill set?”

“I taught myself.” She paused then shrugged. “Mostly."

"And who taught you the rest."

"Some have said it’s a gift from Julianos himself," she said with a soft chuckle, and Vicente swore there was a hint of pride to it, as though she had just told a received joke. "But I am far from an expert. I’ve been practicing for as long as I can remember and I train with anyone who grants me a moment of their time.” 

Vicente nodded, suspecting that Nim lied in the way most experienced liars do, in answers that were half-truths. It was very unlikely that such a young individual could learn two difficult schools of magic with no formal training. Lucien had also mentioned that the girl was skilled enough in mysticism to detect him as he followed her. He also had reason to believe she could cast an invisibility spell, or at least a strong chameleon. Vicente once more inspected the unsuspecting recruit front of him. There was no doubt in his mind that she was a mage, and who knew, maybe she truly was gifted. The Gods worked in funny ways like that. 

“And your weapon of choice?” If she said Claymore, Vicente would be sure she was part Daedra.

“Hmm, short-bow. I’m small and can seldom overpower another with mere brute force, but I can hunt. If I stick to the shadows, I’m fair with a dagger. I’ve killed with a short-sword before, but I have weak arms and rely on being quick and nimble. Paralysis doesn’t hurt to throw around either. Then you can start getting creative.”

“All those can be improved on," he said. "Being small and quiet is often more useful in our line of work either way. How are you at moving undetected?”

An involuntary smile crept across her face, and _that_ was undeniable a prideful thing. “It’s what I do best.”

“Very good,” Vicente said, his voice lilting, satisfied for now. “That’s all I need to know to begin a training regime for you. You’re free to stick around my quarters or leave if you so choose. We will speak about your first contract soon. Should you have questions, you know where to find me.”

Nim stood and made for the door, then stalled and pivoted to face him again. “Vicente,” she began. The vampire noted a slight tightness in her voice, as though nervous. “I- I would like to ask you for an accommodation.”

“I’ll try my best," he said cautiously. "Let's hear it.”

“Is there a way that I could, um, not be given contracts for certain kinds of people?”

“Such as?”

“Maybe not an innocent person."

Vicente cocked his head, attempting to gauge wether or not this was a joke.

"I know how this stupid this sounds," she continued, scoffing at herself, her voice breathy, "but do I have any say in who I get to kill? For this first contract at the very least? I've only had experience killing criminals before. I'm worried I might get... overwhelmed.”

At that, Vicente laughed heartily. _The gall! The absurdity!_ “And who is to determine what makes a person innocent, hmm?" he said, still laughing. "We’re all guilty of something.”

“Well, me,” she said as though the answer was obvious. “I will determine that. I just- I never thought I would find myself with this occupation. I need time to adjust."

"You murdrered a countess, dear girl."

"Alessia Caro?" She made a flippant gesture in the air. "Like I said, I've only ever killed criminals."

For a moment, Vicente stared at her in bewilderment. Lucien had mentioned the denial was strong with this one, so ot really should not have come as such a surprise that she would make such a request. She hardly looked or spoke the part of a cold-blooded killer. Up until now at least.

"So?" she pressed him. "Do you think it can be done?”

“I think I could arrange something.” Choosing not to kill indiscriminately would certainly make finding contracts for her harder but Vicente was never one to shy away from a challenge. He would entertain the girl's request. Ocheeva certainly would not, but that was a bridge to cross at another time, if Nim ever made it that far.

“Thanks. I, um, appreciate it.” Nim offered him a small bow of her head and fled the room.

Alone once more, Vicente found himself puzzled. Some people chose to join the Dark Brotherhood when they had reached rock bottom. Some, to find a social circle that would accept their blood lust. For many, money in exchange for life was good enough reason. Nim was clearly capable of building a life for herself outside of murder. Why accept the invitation unless there was something to benefit her? 

She was an impressive recruit on paper, he’d give her that, but no part of their conversation had really convinced him that this environment was one she would flourish in. She was intelligent, but so very naive.

_No innocent people, bah!_

She spoke with him as though her entry into their faction occurred by accidentally tripping into the Countess with her blade unsheathed and seemed far more interested in alchemy and history than she did in murder for hire. Still, first impressions were often be deceiving. Vicente was eager to learn if her skills in combat were equally as notable. 


	4. Bloodletting at Dusk

**Chapter 4: Bloodletting at Dusk**

Vicente circled the edge of the training room, his footwork poised and each step deliberate. Nim’s eyes trailed his every movement as she waited in defense. In a blink, the vampire was upon her. He lunged forward, striking out towards her face with his left fist. Nim narrowly missed contact with it as she ducked away, raising her own fists beside her head to prepare to shield another blow. Vicente struck her in the shoulder with a powerful kick, slamming her body into the stone pillar. She fell to her side and rolled back onto her feet. Wobbly and disoriented from the impact of the stone against her head, she returned to tracking his movements. She had read of the incredible strength possessed by those afflicted with vampirism and thus had expected his strikes to be powerful. However, she never imagined that a dead man could move so swiftly.

Vicente lunged out again with his left fist, but Nim caught it at the wrist. Without thinking, she sent a stream of magic from her palm up the length of his arm.

“Ouch!” Vicente cried out as the tingle of her shock spell dissipated across his skin. He turned to her, eyes reprimanding. “I said no magic allowed.”

“I’m sorry!" Nim squeaked. "It’s just second nature!”

She felt absolutely horrible watching Vicente inspect the skin of his arm, his face pinched in pain. He rolled up his sleeve with a sharp hiss to reveal a red scar of long, branching tendrils where the electricity had discharged.

“Is it really so bad?" She asked, her eyes wide and apologetic. "Let me see it. I can heal--"

Suddenly, the air was pushed from her lungs. Vicente rushed into her, hoisting her body into the air and throwing it forcefully into the training mat behind her. She lay on the ground gasping, eyes rimmed with shock, as Vicente looked down at her.

“Dead again.” He shook his head with a series of light tuts. “You can’t drop your guard. How many times must I remind you?”

Only a dry wheeze came out in response.

“You’re too scrawny, Nim. There is no other way to say it. You need to get stronger or you will easily be overpowered in a close quarter confrontation.”

Vicente squatted down beside the Bosmer, who was just now regaining the ability to breathe. Her head throbbed in pain, the impact of the blow ringing against the inside of her skull. He had woke her early to begin training in the morning, and they had continued into the afternoon, starting with short-blades and now working on hand-to-hand combat. Nim was not particularly skilled in either, and it showed.

As she lay on the floor, Vicente eyed her over, a small frown on his lips. He appeared to be studying her yet again. Apparently all the questions from yesterday were not enough to sate his prying appetite. She offered him a sour grin.

"Yes?" Nim was quite done with all the questions, the scrutinizing glares, the interrogations. All of it made her teeth itch. It was nothing against Vicente. In fact, she thought him quite kind. _Normal, _she dare say. Throughout their training, she kept having to remind herself that the man was dead. He was simply nothing like the vampires she had met before.He was funny, understanding, even handsome by conventional standards. Vicente was so _human._

She compared this image to those of the other vampire's she had encountered in her past. Count Janus Hassildor was unpleasant. He was insulting and arrogant, and although Nim found his presence loathsome, she supposed he wasn’t entirely unattractive for the middle-aged man he appeared to be. What had Vicente said about feeding, the longer you go without, the more your true age shows? Janus Hassildor didn’t look old in the manner that men naturally aged, he looked _ancient_. 

The other vampire she had met, Jakben, the Earl of Imbel, had tried to kill her, sure, but that fact didn't make him any less symmetrical. Nim suspected that there was some powerful illusion magic that went hand in hand with the vampiric affliction. She wondered if the Count and the Earl were worse looking when they were still mortal. If they were, then their personalities certainly would not have made up for it. Being the perfectly pleasant individual he was, she imagined Vicente never had to deal with such an issue.

Nim concluded that she liked him, though he was nosy. For that matter, everyone in this Sanctuary was nosy. At least when it came to Vicente, she understood why he had been so inquisitive. Their introductory meeting was intended to test her boundaries, to pry out information that she'd be less inclined to give willingly. She wondered if she had given too much, but then glanced over to him and saw he was still inspecting her, looking as though he wanted to speak. Perhaps she had given too little. What else did he need to know? What else could he sense with that supernatural perception? Nim bit her lip.

Would he ask about her experience with magic? She hoped not and was profusely thankful that they were sparring with iron and fists instead of willpower. She had no real way to explain to him how she possessed her skill without giving away that she had studied with the Mages Guild. He must have known that she was being purposely vague in keeping those details from him. He seemed as trustworthy as a 300-year old undead assassin could be, but what might the rest of the family say if they knew she was a member of the Mages Guild? She shuddered at the thought that some of her magician colleagues were also involved in a similar double life. If necromancy was no longer a surprise, she couldn’t see how a Dark Brotherhood assassin was that far off.

When Vicente did at last speak again, his question surprised her.

“What did you have for breakfast?” He asked. She looked at him quizzically, an eyebrow raised.

“I don’t know. An egg? Some stale bread? Whatever I saw in the pantry.”

Vicente looked on in disapproval. “Two eggs at least and a good-sized wedge of cheese. Fresh fruit and if you can add some meats like ham or bacon, it would do you good.”

Nim sat up slowly and winced at the dull ache of her torso. From the way things had started with short-blades, she knew she’d be leaving their practice session with more than a few bruised ribs.

“And what would you know about balanced breakfast?” she asked. “When’s the last time you needed to put on weight?”

“I’ve been training recruits for decades, long enough to learn a thing or two about proper nutrition. Come. Let me make you lunch, and we can discuss your first assignment. I think you will be pleased with this one. He's certainly no _innocent._” He said the last bit with a derisive laugh.

Nim let a wave of healing light wash over her before standing to her feet. Vicente offered her his hand which she accepted to steady her shaky stance. She looked down at her twiggy legs and sighed, acknowledging that her childhood had undoubtedly led to stunted growth. She certainly wouldn’t mind a bit more muscle and fat deposited in certain regions of her body. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing to fill out that shrouded armor. Vicente led her to the kitchen of the living quarters. She eagerly followed.

* * *

Pirates, Vicente had said to her. Nim knew a thing or two about pirates. Even more so about the bloody thugs that inhabited the Waterfront, always going on about “_don’t step on the ship, fancy pants_” and “_don’t look at the ship, fancy pants_” even though Nim was always dressed in the same pair of pants and healthy layer of grime as the sailors who had accosted her. But this contract wasn't for any pirate. It was for the captain himself.

By the time she made it down to the Waterfront, the day was waning. Magnus began its descent above her, and deciding it best to scout out her options, Nim picked up the fishing rod from the barrel beside Methredhel's shack and stationed herself at the edge of the lake. She watched the ship crew word at the end of the harbor.

First-mate Malvulis, a fiery and very intimidating Dunmer woman, stood on the deck of the ship while two pirates worked on packing supply crates along the dock. Nim knew from prior eaves-dropping that the Malvulis was not well liked by all members of the crew. Having a woman aboard the ship was seen as bad luck to some, but she was said to be a competent sailor and Captain Gaston Tussaud trusted her.

From her vantage point, Nim spied the small deck below the stern of the ship attached to the captain’s quarters. She could easily leap from the wall of the walkway onto the balcony and sneak her way into the quarters. She would find Tussaud inside, but what then?

Kill him and leave? No one would believe he suddenly died in his sleep without cause. Binge-drink himself to death? She could scatter dozens of empty bottles in his room, but still doubted how genuine the scene would look to inspectors.

She approached a Redguard working to fill a crate with bags of grain and potatoes. The other pirate, a Breton, had disappeared below deck as he loaded the ship.

“Hey you,” she called over to him with a wave and her most winsome smile.

“Yeah?”

The man looked up briefly and wiped a string of sweat off his forehead. Spying Nim, who was very much not his type, he turned back to his work. He'd seen more meat on the loins of a troll.

With his gaze averted, Nim cast a heavy charm spell over him and stepped forward. She dragged her hand down his bare arm.

“I hear it’s ten-drake-Tirdas over at the Bloated Float," she cooed. Or tried too. Whatever it was, it seemed to be working. "Why don’t you run down there and get me a drink, huh? We could share it out here. Watch the sunset, and sit all close like.”

The man looked her up and down again, his lips curling. For whatever reason, he found the Bosmer in front of him much better looking up close. “Say I do it," he began, a lecherous glint in his eyes. "What am I going to get in return?” 

“What, my company ain't enough?” Nim attempted to maintain her coquettish simper while actively pulling herself away from the pirate's reaching hands. He leaned in slowly, swiping a lock of her hair over her ear, and she became very aware of the fact that he had likely not bathed in a week. Nim, not having the patience to maintain her sultry sway or the remotest desire to kiss the dirty pirate, let a command spell flood over him. “Go to the Bloated Float and buy me a beer," she said and shoved her coins into his palm. "Here’s ten drakes. Stay there and have a drink. Don't leave.”

It was a harmless command, she told herself as she watched him scamper down the dock. Depending on how quickly she worked, it might just save his life.

She surveyed the ship in front of her once more. Now there were only two pirates on deck, Malvulis and the Breton crew-member. Nim stood onto the stone wall of the dock and concealed herself beneath an invisibility charm. She leapt onto the balcony of the captain’s quarters, catching herself on the wooden rail before hoisting herself up.

Inside, Gaston was asleep and snoring heavily. She moved silently through the cabin to the front door that lead out to the main deck. She unlocked it, turned the knob so that the door swung open slowly. Readying herself for the next stage of her plan, she crawled under the Captain's bed, concealing herself beneath the draping covers. With her telekinesis spell, she swept a clay flower pot off the table and sent it hurling into the wall above Gaston’s head. He awoke at once, the mattress above her squeaking as he stood to his feet. Nim peeked out from below the overhanging blanket and once again let her telekinesis flow, throwing a bottle of wine across the room, smashing it against the wall.

The loud crash and sudden yelp from Gaston drew the attention of a nearby crew-member, who peered into the captains quarters cautiously to find Gaston up on his feet searching his room for the intruder and possible source of the ruckus. Nim focused her magicka to weave a spell of frenzy and let it strike the captain square in the back.

Instantly, Gaston locked eyes with the pirate and rushed him with a guttural howl of fury. He swung his cutlass high above his head and cut swathes through the air as she chased the pirate down. The panicked pirate raced out onto the deck and drew his own blade, preparing to defend himself against Captain Tussaud.

Nim wasted no time in scrambling out from beneath the bed. She made her way to the deck, watching from the shadows of the Captains quarters. Gaston and the pirate were dueling now, clashing their steel against one another with loud grunts. The metallic clang of parries and deflections rang sharply through the air. From the upper deck, Malvulis screamed for the two men to lay down their arms, and as she raced down toward them, Nim sent another ball of frenzy hurdling her way. It was not long before Malvulis drew her own blade, and soon the fight was down to the two of them, Captain and First-Mate.

Nim hoped this plan would work, hoped Malvulis was as skilled with her blade as the rumors had made her out to be. From across the deck, she watched as the Dunmer landed a few deep blows to Gaston's side. Red blood splattered the wooden planks. Gaston stumbled. Nim figured that in his current shape, knocking him off the boat and into the water would probably lead to his death by drowning, blood loss, or the inevitable infection. It seemed her work here was almost done.

With the deck in an uproar of pained shrieks, she leapt back onto the harbor and flagged down the nearest Imperial Watchman she could find.

“I-I think someone is in trouble,” she stammered out, feigning worry, and pointed a shaky finger toward the _Marie Elena._ “I saw some sailors fighting up there. I think- I think they were speaking about a mutiny.”

The Imperial Watchmen gave an exasperated groan. "Bloody pirates," he grumbled and signaled to another of his ranks patrolling the lighthouse across the water. "Damned sea of thieves. Of course they are. Not a civil bone in their body. Can't believe it's happening again, and why does the Watch have to deal with it? We're living in a damn cesspit..."

Nim stood silently, watching as the guard began a slow, disgruntled walk down to the pirate's ship. She wondered if she should follow after him, watch how the scene played out, when suddenly she felt a tap on her back.

"You!" 

She spun around to greet the Redguard pirate from moments before. A scathing glower marred his face. "You crazy bitch! What'd you do to me? What are you playing at?”

Nim simply rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah. You're one of the lucky ones, you know. Consider thanking me when you find out what happened down at your ship."

"Bitch," he spat again. "I ought to throw you off these here docks and--"

"Please," Nim cut in, holding out her hand. "You can stick it between a chaurus' mandibles for all I care. There's a mutiny down on your boat, don't you wanna go see what happened?"

The pirate froze, eyes wide, ears twitching "What?" Nim turned around and pointed down the docks where the shouting of the pirates could be heard in the faint distance. “By Kynareth!” He criet out before racing off toward his ship.

Eventually, Nim made her way down to catch the sight herself. She stayed only as long as was necessary, long enough to see a sprinkling of pirates floating in the murky waters of the Waterfront harbor and Captain Gaston Tussauds limp body lying in a pool of his own blood atop the ship deck. Her work here was done indeed.

* * *

Nim made her way back to Cheydinhal, arriving at the gates in the dark hours of the morning. She made every effort to skirt the edges of the city walls, hoping to avoid detection from any Mages Guild members who might be out and about. She had plenty of friends in town and aimed to keep them separate from her current state of business.

As she entered the abandoned house, she reflected on her methods of execution. Nobody could trace the murder back to her, not with witnesses on hand who saw the fight break out on the deck of the _Marie Elena. _Had she caused too much of a scene down at the Waterfront? Would she be reprimanded for leaving it so messy?

Nim doubted there were any arrests made so long as no citizens were injured, and the fight seemed contained by the time she left the Waterfront. The Imperial Watch had greater worries to deal with before they would mettle in the affairs of pirates. One less pirate Captain in the world was not going to leave anyone restless at night. Who would take his place? Malvulis? Or would the crew dissolve entirely in his absence?

Gaston’s death did not please her. Mere fulfillment of the contract and the promise of pay gave Nim no sense of satisfaction in itself. But... the planning, the scheming... there was something to it. To know that with a few careful spells, she could cause so much mayhem, to have caused such an irrevocable disturbance and have gotten away with it – there was a _thrill_ to it.

Her stomach knotted. This feeling reminded her of darker days. She was spinning webs for the sole purpose of having extra silk on hand. Mephala would praise her, but since when did she care about the Webspinner's desires? The brief bloom of sinister warmth upon completion of her contract dissipated quickly, leaving only a harrowing bloodless chill at the nape of her neck. She shook the feeling loose, tried to at least. It was more difficult a task than she thought it would be.

Entering the sanctuary, Nim walked down to the living quarters and sat on her bed. The room was void of light, but she could make out the black shapes of her fellow assassins slumbering nearby. Nim removed her boots and slipped under her covers, facing away from where the others slept. Drawing the scratchy wool blankets over her head, she listened to the snores and heavy breaths all around her and willed herself to sleep.

“Hey,” a quiet voice called out to her.

Was it speaking to her? Nim turned her neck to get a better look at the bed next to her and brought her covers down to peek out.

“First contract," The voice said. Nim whispered a night-eye cantrip and found Antoinetta staring at her through the darkness. "How did it go?”

“Um... it went well,” she whispered back. “I suppose. There wasn’t much to it. Pirates can be very stupid.”

Antoinetta snickered. “Stupid can go a long way in our line of work. How does it feel to be one of us now?”

_One of us. _

Nim didn’t know how to respond. She didn’t really feel any different at all. The adrenaline had dissipated long ago, leaving only the echo of her heartbeat in her ears. She focused intently on the grooves in the stone blocks of the ceiling above her, as though if she stared hard enough, she could trace out the path that had lead her to this moment here, in the Sanctuary, blood on her soul and coin in her pocket. Nim wasn’t sure she could explain what she doing in this dark room surrounded by assassins. These were the motions of a Dark Brotherhood assassin. She was a murderer, and this is how murderers spent their nights, wasn't it?

She offered Antoinetta the truth, certain that it wasn’t really what the Breton would want to hear. “I feel… nothing. Like there is this hollow pit inside me that is growing and growing, like it is trying to consume me.”

Antoinetta nodded thoughtfully. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“The emptiness, the void. That’s the call of our Dread Father. He welcomes you.”

Nim turned her head and settled her gaze on the woman’s silhouette. “Is that what you’re supposed to feel after a kill?”

“I don’t know,” the Breton admitted. “It must be different for everyone.”

Nim felt only relief whenever she killed necromancers or bandits, never pleasure. The death of those enemies had been necessary to her survival and to the safety of her fellow mages. The plotting and scheming leading up to Gaston’s death had amused her in a morbid way, but the fact that she had sent his soul to whatever a _Sithis _was brought no gratification in the slightest. Only Alessia Caro’s death had made her feel something. It had stirred awake something ravenous and predatory from the hidden recesses of her being. The Countess' assassination had _meaning_.

“Is that what you feel?” she asked.

“No,” Antoinetta whispered with a gentle shake of her head. “Sometimes, right before a kill, Sithis speaks to me. He whispers in my ear and fills my heart with the joy of suffering and death.”

Nim rolled over in her bed to fully face her fellow assassin.

“What is Sithis, Antoinetta? I still don’t understand even after Lucien explained it to me.”

“Oh, Lucien would know better than anyone, I’d imagine.”

“Maybe so, but he can’t explain it for guar dung.”

“Sithis is…” Antoinetta paused, her face scrunched up in deep thought. “Have you ever lived on the streets, Nim, really struggled to survive?”

“Yes," she nodded. "I grew up with nothing. No parents. No home.”

Antoinetta’s eyes widened briefly. Though scrawny, Nim appeared to be in good health and well groomed. When they met, Nim was dressed in finer clothing than Antoinetta had ever owned in her life. She had clearly not expected the wood-elf’s answer.

“Then you know what it’s like to be on the brink of death,” she said.

Nim nodded, and Antoinetta reached her arm out toward her, held her hand palm up in the air. Nim looked at it curiously for a moment before cautiously taking hold.

“Sithis is the cold rain that soaks down to your bones and turns your fingers blue, and he is the warm smoke that fills your lungs as you take refuge beneath the eaves of blacksmith's roof. Sithis is falling asleep wondering if you are ever going to wakeup. He is the dreamless slumber you have after days and days of nothing to eat, and then finding yourself alive the next morning.”

Nim felt Antoinetta squeeze her hand. It was not a direct answer, not the one she was looking for, but it was one that she understood.

* * *

In the morning, Nim made her way down to Vicente’s quarters. She paused at the base of the hall. The door was cracked open. From inside, she heard the opening and shutting of dresser drawers and peered through the open sliver to find a woman clad in her undergarments slipping a dark shirt over her head. Nim gasped at the sight and felt her cheeks flush in embarrassment.

“Hello,” the woman said, catching Nim’s peeping gaze. She offered a warm smile as she smoothed the shirt over her chest,

“I-I’m sorry," Nim fumbled out."I should have knocked.” 

“You must be Nimileth. Vicente’s been telling me about you. Come in.”

Nim did as she was told, her legs moving on there own, very aware yet powerless to the fact that she was still gawking. 

“Lorise Audenius,” the woman said, extending her hand towards the small Bosmer. Nim took it and stared at the woman, awestruck.

She was a Bosmer but Imperial in both name and appearance. Standing at nearly 5 foot 9 inches, Lorise was taller than any other Wood-Elf Nim had ever met. And perhaps the most muscularly built one she had ever seen on top of it. 

She wore one of Vicente's plain black shirts and nothing else, leaving her legs bare, and they were thick, scarred legs of solid muscle that flexed taut as she walked across the room. She was tan, not as dark in complexion as Nim, but still a rich hue of deep amber, and her rounded face was soft with pronounced cheekbones, full lips that curled into a deceivingly delicate little grin.

Lorise took a seat at the table. Her long black hair swirled around her. She smiled upwards at Nim with calm teal eyes, not quite blue nor green, a color Nim had seldom seen among people of her race, and she waved Nim further into the room, motioning for her to join her at the tables as she peeled an orange.

Nim, a masterful admirer of beautiful things, concluded that she had never seen a woman more beautiful than this in her entire life.

She took the seat across from the older woman, sat still and speechless. Lorise peeled her fruit and offered Nim a slice. She accepted and let it sit in her palm as she continued staring at the woman like the highly-skilled, freelance gawper she was.

“How was your first contract?” Lorise finally asked.

“Oh!" Nim squeaked, trying very hard to peel her eyes away. “Fine. How did you know I completed it?”

“Word travels fast,” Lorise said between bites, “when you know who to ask, of course.”

Nim peeled the skin off her orange slice and began picking apart the individual vesicles of juice and pulp, laying them in a neat row on the table. She found herself at a loss of words, unable to think of a single thing to say to the woman in front of her. All she could do was gaze on, and so the two women stared silently at one another, Lorise’s smile never faltering.

“Is- is Vicente around?” Nim finally managed out

“Somewhere,” Lorise replied, watching curiously as Nim deconstructed the piece of fruit in front of her. “Why, am I making you nervous?”

“Yes,” she blurted out without hesitation, “and I’m not often intimidated by other people. It's strange. I don’t know what to do with my hands.” She looked up from what remained of her orange slice and blinked rapidly, embarrassed by her unbridled candor.

"Why would you be intimidated by little-old-me?” Lorise laughed heartily, and her voice was a soft, breezy sound to Nim's ear.

“I hear you’re the Grand Champion. _The Butcher_, they call you.”

Lorise leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. She nodded. "So I am."

“It's an ominous name. I bet you could snap my neck and have me dead in five seconds.”

“I bet I could do it in two.”

At Lorises's playful smirk, Nim’s expression softened. She hadn’t expected that _The Butcher_ would look anything like the woman in front of her. Sitting across from one of the most skilled fighters in Cyrodiil, Nim felt a surge of both wonder and fear.

“You know, I’ve never watched an arena match in my life,” she confessed.

Lorise raised a brow. “Well it’s your lucky day then. First row seats on the house.”

“Ah. Well, that's kind of you. I have no doubt you are as skilled and entertaining as they say but truthfully, I have never wanted to see a match before.”

Lorise recoiled, making a show of withering against her seat. “Don’t tell me you’re not a fan of unnecessary bloodshed.”

Nim shook her head, then shrugged. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Huh. Peculiar. I wonder you’re doing here then, Queen-Killer.”

_Queen-Killer_. The very thought of such a title drew from her a loud snort. “If Alessia Caro was a queen, then I’m next in line for the throne.”

“Well either way, I say good riddance to bad rubbish.”

“Aye, I’d drink to that.” Nim nodded with enthusiasm. She leaned forward in her seat and rested her elbows on the table. “You know, I’ve never been in the presence of such a deadly woman. And you look like Dibella’s gift to creation. It’s… quite humbling.”

Lorise laughed again, louder than before, and shook her head, hair whipping against her shoulders. “I bet you say that to everyone you meet.”

“Only if it's true,” Nim said with an earnest shrug.

“You’re not so bad looking yourself,” Lorise replied, leaning forward as well, her smile deepening when she saw Nim blush. “Vicente failed to mention your charm and grace earlier.”

“Oh." Feeling her face grow infernally warm, Nim directed her gaze elsewhere. The wall. The table. The fidgeting hands in her lap. She pulled at the chain of her amulet and attempted to clear her throat. "Speaking of Vicente, do you know where I could find him?“

As though on command, the sound of footsteps against stone grew louder from the hallway beyond the quarters and soon, Vicente appeared, poking his head around the door and giving a small knock before proceeding in. For a moment, Nim wondered if he had been eavesdropping for a spell but quickly shook the paranoid thought from her mind. So what if he had? She hadn't said anything ghastly. Embarrassing maybe, but that was hardly the first time.

The vampire nodded cheerfully to Nim as he entered and walked toward Lorise, placing a gentle kiss on her cheek before taking the seat next to her. Lorise turned her head to the Breton and smiled. She placed her hand on his thigh, rubbing gently with her thumb.

At once Nim realized they were lovers. A 300-year old vampire and a Grand Champion with the face of a goddess. Stranger pairings have existed. Like Telandril and Gogron, for example. Nim on the other hand was very much single. Who was she to judge?

“What did I miss?” Vicente asked with a wide, toothy grin. “I heard the two of you laughing down here.”

“Nimileth was in the process of wooing me,” Lorise said with an impish grin.

“Oh, Yes,” Nim added, deciding to play along. “But I’m only one of many hopeless courters by the looks of it.”

“My apologies, Nim,” Vicente said with a frown of feigned remorse. “I should have mentioned our relationship before you became too invested.”

“My heart will mend itself in time. I take it you’ve also heard that I’ve completed my contract?”

She didn’t know how it was that word got around so fast but given that the Gray Fox had a secret spy network that informed him of Nim’s constant whereabouts, it wasn’t so hard to believe that the brotherhood operated within similar means.

Vicente nodded. “A mutiny, I hear. The Imperial Watch was none the wiser.”

“Vicente,” Lorise interrupted. “Did you know that Nimileth is not a fan of unnecessary bloodshed? How peculiar, isn’t it?”

Vicente gave Nim an all-knowing smile. “So I have heard. Given your distaste of such and your penchant for coverups, I think you may like your next contract.”

“Oh?” Nim raised a brow. “Do tell.”


	5. Useless

**Chapter 5: Useless**

After the morning service at the Chapel of Dibella, Nim lounged in her foyer with a fresh peach from her garden and a copy of _The Waters of Oblivion. _She had arrived home after taking care of her contract up in Bruma. Killing Baenlin had been a cake walk. She could have done it with her eyes closed if she really wanted a challenge.

Given the nature of her agreement with Vicente, the contracts she was willing to fulfill were few and far between. Not wanting to wait around in the Sanctuary and risk running into that eerie Speaker, she returned home to Anvil for a few days to work on her studies with Carahil and make a bit of extra coin selling her usual potions.

A knock on her front door interrupted her reading. Her cat wandered over, pawing incessantly and rolling over on the rug. Peeping through the window, Nim saw Thaurron standing on her porch.

“Hey,” she greeted her fellow guild mate. “Want to come in?” She hoped he would say yes. A distraction from solitude and the echoing thoughts that accompanied it might do her well.

Thaurron shook his head and reached down to pet the small, black cat. “I’ve got to get back to the guild hall and feed Sparky, but this letter came for you from the Arcane University. I know you’ve been waiting for it."

Finally, a letter from Traven had arrived. Nim thanked her friend and eagerly rushed to her study to retrieve the Blade of Woe she had been using as a letter-opener.

_Magician Nimileth,_

_Congratulations on all your achievements within the guild thus far. I must apologize for not personally reaching out to you sooner. It’s high time we meet face to face, don’t you think?_

_I have heard nothing but positive words of you from our colleagues and now have a difficult task that requires your assistance. Please come to the University at your earliest convenience. As you are well aware, time is of the utmost importance when dealing with these delicate matters._

_Hannibal Traven, Arch-mage_

Nim had her bag packed within minutes. She couldn’t possibly imagine what had taken the Council so long to formulate the next step of their plan to flush out the increased necromancer activity cropping up over Cyrodiil. She had no doubt in her mind that in the interim between her investigation of Count Hassildor and now, the Council had done nothing but sit on their asses and watch as the worst of their fears unfolded around them. By now, there had likely been another attack somewhere and Nim would bet money that she was going to be sent in to clean up the mess.

She prayed to Stendarr to be wrong, but in her heart, she knew she wasn’t.

* * *

Nim stood in the Arch-mage’s quarters at the foot of Hannibal Traven’s bed. She had arrived early expecting the Arch-mage to be up and about trying to figure out how to quell the rise of dark magics within the largest body of practitioners in Cyrodill. It was a quarter to eight now and instead, she found him sleeping soundly in his bedroom. She shook her head in disapproval. For the head of the Mages Guild, he sure seemed to live an idle and effortless existence.

Bothiel had let her up, stating that Traven would meet her in the council room, but she had arrived to find it empty. After a brief second of weighing her options, she decided to root around the tower and search for the old wizard herself.

“Arch-mage,” she murmured. She knew she should be waiting downstairs, but damnit she had been waiting two months for this assignment! “Arch-mage.”

Traven’s eyes flew open. Suddenly becoming aware of the extra presence in his quarters, he sprung out of bed, and Nim thanked the Nine above her to find that he was fully clothed.

“Mid-morning nap?” she asked watching as the Arch-mage smoothed down his hair and robes, attempting to reclaim some manner of fitting appearance. “It’s good to see you’re maintaining your vitality.”

“Nimileth, I- who let you in?"

Nim only stared with pursed lips.

"Never mind then," Traven said, waving her silence off. "I should have been expecting you. I was up late last night working out the details of this assignment, my apologies. Follow me, let’s reconvene in the Council room.”

She followed after him through the teleporter, her form disappearing in a haze of purple light, and on the other side, the Council room was empty. She took a seat across the large round table from the Arch-mage.

“So we finally meet,” Traven said with a warm smile. He had a kind face and soft brown eyes that made Nim want to like him, but she was not yet convinced that he was anything more than a useless pile of scrib jelly.

“Raminus has been telling me nothing but good things about you."

"Oh, that is very kind of him," she said and quelled the fluttering that bloomed in her chest at the mention of the Master Wizard. _How was Raminus these days_, she wondered? _Does he think of me? Does he miss me as I miss him? _Nim wanted to see him. Ever since they sought out to uncover the creation of black soul gems together at the Dark Fissure, she had done nothing but think of him, the moment they shared that night. And it was a _moment, _wasn't it? She wasn't making it up... was she?

Traven continued on, and she shook herself from such daydreams. Now was not the time for listless pining. Now was the time to act.

"You have advanced quickly, Magician," he said. "You have shown great promise, and I now intend to put your talents to a more direct test. I have a difficult task that you can, perhaps, assist with.”

“Thank you, Archmage," she said with a nod. "I am listening.”

“Very good. Let me explain what is at stake. The Council of Mages has been aware of the increased Necromancer activity in Cyrodiil for some time. It had been our position to sit back and watch what unfolded--“

“I am aware,” she interrupted. Traven nodded and smiled sympathetically.

“But that time has clearly passed.”

“Mhm.”

“We cannot tolerate these attacks on the guild. Most of our information on Necromancers has come from an informant inside the cult itself, a guild member who offered to infiltrate their ranks.”

Nim’s eyes widened at this information. She had no idea there was already such an operation under way. An immense wave of relief washed over her to know that not all her fears of the Councils incompetence were true.

“And?" she pressed him. "What have you found out?”

“Though the information he has provided is limited, it has given us a sense of their scope and power. The Council was initially reluctant to believe the information was reliable, but with recent events, they have little choice but to trust it."

Nim's stomach lurch. _Fools! Contemptible fools! _They had placed an informant among the ranks of necromancers and chose to doubt the validity of his claims? She hung her head in her hands, combing her fingers through her hair with a growing anxiety. It was so much worse than she had feared!

“And he’s in trouble now isn’t he?” She asked, eyes directed at the table. She didn't really need Traven to respond to know what the answer was. She had been in a similar situation months ago and there was little doubt in her mind that the pattern of neglect had repeated.

“Yes," Traven admitted. "I fear that our informant is in danger, and that is why I have called you here."

“What’s his name? Where is he?”

"His name is Mucianus Allias. He is not a Council member, but has long served the guild here at the Arcane University. With my blessing, he infiltrated a group of Necromancers in the Ayleid ruin of Neyond Twyll, and has fed us information for quite some time, until recently. I have not heard from him, and I fear for his safety. The lack of reports from Mucianus has disturbed the Council, and they are now concerned about the legitimacy of his information.”

Nim’s heart fell more and more with each new piece of information. Traven’s expression had barely shifted from the soft, demure grin, and it only served to further enrage her.

“That’s what you’re concerned about?" She bit out, spite and venom in every word. "The legitimacy of his reports? The man is risking his life to bring you information on the necromancer’s activity and you’re speculating about his ability to make accurate observations?”

Traven's expression grew meek. “The Council has decided to dispatch a group of Battlemages to Mucianus' last know location, with the intent on bringing him in for questioning. I argued against it, but eventually agreed to maintain order in the Council. I regret that decision, and that is why I wish to send you there. I fear the Battlemages may mistreat Mucianus, if they do not mistake him for one of the many Necromancers no doubt present in the ruins. “

Was no one on the Council looking out for their fellow mages? Did they really think everyone beneath them was expendable? Nim looked at Traven, his face now contorted into a worried frown. She didn’t buy it, not after the gross malpractice she had just been made aware of. Traven had known Mucianus was in danger from the day he allowed him to join the necromancer, yet he did nothing to offer him safety. The battlemages would be lucky to find Mucianus alive at all.

“I will go at once,” she said, gathering her belongings.

“Know that I would not ask such a thing of you if I did not feel it was urgent," Traven said, "or if I felt it was beyond your capabilities. Return with Mucianus as quickly as possible, so I may settle the Council's fears.”

Nim stared at him askance. Bewilderment, disgust, but mostly anger roiled inside her, so strongly she felt she might be sick.

“You shouldn’t be worried about the Council’s fears," she snapped. "Worry about Mucianus' life.” 

She stormed out of the room, disappearing in the glow of the teleportation pad, unwillingly to look at Traven’s face any longer lest she vomit at his feet just to spite him.

* * *

Neyond Twyll was just south of the White Rose River, nearly halfway to the border of Elsweyr. It was not far from the Fargyl Inn where she had stayed the night of Rufio’s death. She entered the ruin quietly, slipping between the smallest opening in the door that her body could fit in to avoid the sound of grinding stone.

At the entrance of the ruin, Nim spied a male Bosmer clad in steel armor. He didn’t look like her idea of a necromancer. Could this be one of the battlemages Traven had spoken of? Was there really only one left? She approached cautiously.

“Hey,” she whispered, readying her flame spell. “Did the Council send you?”

“You? What are you doing here?” the man replied, eyes wide in surprise. Did he recognize her? She certainly didn’t recognize him. And why was he yelling so loudly?

“Traven sent me to bring Mucianus back safely.”

“That traitor?" the man snarled. "He must've told them we were coming! We've got to get our hands on him, before he tells them anything else!”

“We don’t know if he’s a traitor yet,” Nim replied, tone equally as harsh but several decibels quieter than the one she had received. “Who are you?”

“Fithragaer. Has the Council gone mad, sending you here alone?” He quickly shook his head. “There's no time. The others... they were waiting for us. They knew we were coming! I'm the only one of the battlemages left. The Necromancers retreated further in, but we've got to follow them. There's no time to waste! Follow me!"

Fithragaer started down the stairway into the large chamber below, and Nim called out after him in panic. What in the blazes was he doing running so carelessly through an Ayleid ruin? She had spent enough time dodging traps and narrowly keeping her head on her shoulders to know better than to go traipsing off down dimly lit hallways.

She chased after him, catching up just in time to watch as the man was lifted up by a rising pillar in the center of the chamber. He meet his fate with a sickening _crunch, _his body crushed against the ceiling.

Nim would be lying to herself if she didn’t see it coming but she still felt a wave of sorrow when the pillar descended to reveal his squashed remains plastered against the surface. She wanted to move it away, closer to the entrance where it could be retrieved and returned to loved ones. She found morbid comfort in the fact that his skeleton was so crushed it would never be used by a necromancer for a thrall. A small comfort. An unusual comfort.

Moving around the splattered remains, she pressed forward in search of Mucianus. She tip-toed about the perimeter of the pillar, jumping away as soon as she could clear the edge to the safe floor on the other side of the room. The banners of the worm-cult decorated the ruins along with loose bones and charred corpses. As she moved deeper into the ruins, she came head-on with numerous skeletons and zombies, signs of the necromancer’s activity, but no necromancers themselves. What if one of them were Mucianus? How would she know?

Nim had just entered the inner sanctum when a shrill female voice called out to her from down the hall. Panicked, Nim looked around in search of the source.

“Oh, you must be Traven's new pet," the plummy voice called out followed by soft footsteps padding across stone. "You poor dear. I'm afraid you're late to the party.”

Nim cast her detect life spell and spied a human shaped aura preparing to turn around the corner at the end of the hall. She readied her flames in her left hand and gripped her elven short-sword with her right. Nim let her invisibility spell conceal her as she approached the end of the hall swiftly and pressed her back against the wall.

“I do hate to disappoint you, but Mucianus is in no condition to be leaving. He's a Worm Thrall now," the woman laughed, and Nim gripped the hilt of her blade until her knuckles turned white. "He will be quite content here, don't worry. A grim fate indeed, but one does not cross the Order of the Black Worm without suffering greatly for it. I shall tell the master--"

The necromancer hadn’t even had the opportunity to finish her spiel before Nim struck. She plunged her sword into the woman’s belly just as she rounded the corner and ran her back against the wall. The necromancer gripped the edges of the sword impaling her stomach, weakly pushing back in one final desperate attempt to break free. Nim ground her teeth and twisted her blade deeper, ignoring the droplets of blood that fell from the necromancer’s open mouth to her hands as she slumped forward limp and lifeless. Nim’s suspicions had been confirmed. Mucianus was gone. The greatest kindness she could do now was to find whatever was left of his walking corpse and lay it to rest forever.

* * *

_Useless._

Nim stared through Traven as he spoke to her about Mucianus, every empty word he uttered passing into one ear and out the next. He had the gall to act surprised when she relayed the terrible state she found him in.

“And there was nothing you could do for him?”

She snapped her eyes to meet his gaze and sneered.

_What have you ever done to protect the ones risking their lives for your schemes? Mucianus is dead because of you. _

In that moment, Nim practiced more self-control to keep those words in her mouth than she had ever practiced in her entire life. She shook her head.

“What a horrible fate. I cannot imagine how they could do such a thing to him.”

“I can, Arch-mage,” she replied, full of ice. “And they will do more if we make no efforts to stop them and their master.”

“So many lives lost…” Traven’s voice trailed off.

Had he heard her? What was he going to do to prevent it from happening again?

_Useless_

“I thank you for trying to save him," he said, nodding solemnly. "I must meet with the Council at once. We have much to discuss.”

“Arch-mage," she called out as he turned to leave. "I hope you’ve learned something from this experience. In life or in death, I hope Mucianus sacrifices will be honored.”

She disappeared through the teleporter and once arriving in the tower lobby, walked straight into the Orrery. The machinery was at rest, leaving the room dark and silent as she ascended the steps to the console. She set the orbits in motion with a turn of the dials.

_Useless._

Nim stared into the heavens above as the dwemer cogs sprang to life with a loud whirr. Where was Mucianus now? Was his soul at peace? Had Arkay reclaimed him? She wondered if his memory live on or if he was already swept aside by the Council now that the situation at Nenyond Twyll was neutralized.

She had found him staggering through a small alcove of the ruins. Even through the necrosis and rot, Nim could see the pain and agony twisting across his face. His anguished groans would haunt her to her grave. 

How many more would be turned into thralls without reason? How many more would she be too late to save? If she continued working for the Council, would that be her fate too?

Nim gazed up at the heavens and screamed, the thrum of the Dwemer machinery drowning out her choked sobs. The planets circled callously, without sympathy above her.


	6. To Glow

**Chapter 6: To Glow**

Nim awoke on the cold floor of the Orrery. Afraid that Bothiel might come in and berate her for leaving the machinery orbiting all night long, she shut off the console, and as discreetly as possible, she made her way for the bathhouse across campus, keeping her head down to avoid anyone who might recognize her strolling about this early in the morning.

For as much as she criticized the cramped university dorms, the magically enchanted tubs almost made up for it. Almost. She stepped into the scalding water and watched it flow around her feet. Slowly, she lowered herself down upon the porcelain and listened as the water rose and slowly filled her ears until only the loud surge from below the surface vibrated against her eardrums.

The heat of the water turned her skin a bright shade of red and she scrubbed herself thoroughly with a bar of lavender soap that she found sitting in a nearby tub. It looked clean enough, only a few suspiciously thick hairs stuck to the back surface. After drying off, she gathered up her clothes and shoved them into her pack. She spied a clean cotton dress resting on the shelf of the nearby linen closet and slipped it on. It was a light yellow shade, very plain and cheaply made. It looked like all the other nondescript clothing she usually wore. No one would be able to tell it didn’t belong to her. Except it's owner maybe.

Now that it was well into the morning, Nim debated stopping by the Arch-mages lobby to see if Bothiel was in. Part of her thought it would be best if she returned to Anvil as soon as possible. Traven would reach out to her when the Council needed someone to clean up their mistakes again, but she hadn’t seen Bothiel in so long. A brief chat with a trusted friend might do her some good in a time like this. She shook her wet hair loose after running through it with a towel and proceeded toward the lobby.

“Nimileth?”

The voice on the other side of the lobby door made her heart skip. She pivoted on her heels to find a surprised Raminus Polus staring at her from across the small foyer. He was carrying a copy of _The Real Barenziah vol. 3, _and upon seeing Nim’s eyes wander down to read the title, he quickly tucked it beneath his arm and cleared his throat.

He stood to greet her.

“I wondered when I’d see you again," he said, looking down at her with a surprised, but warm smile.

Nim hadn’t spoken with Raminus in nearly a month and the last time they did had been following their investigation of the Dark Fissure. She had said some rather harebrained and mawkish things to him that night, and had they not been interrupted by the necromancer and his ritual, she might have kept on speaking, might have told Raminus how she _truly _felt about him.

The memory was mortifying even now, and she guessed Raminus must have thought so too. Following their return from the site, he seemed to be trying very hard to avoid being alone with her, and Nim wondered if he felt any strong way about her recent absence from the University. The Gods knew she certainly did.

“Raminus!” She greeted him with a keen, little grin, and instinctively stepped toward him. He tensed at her sudden advancement and she stilled, her stomach dropping a foot within her at the unease tightening plainly in his posture. Nothing had seemed to change between them at all and her chest filled with a pang of heartache. She shifted her pack to the other shoulder, wishing she had left the grounds when she had the chance. “I... hope you’ve been well," she mumbled out.

Raminus nodded, expression flustered. "I heard you’ve met with Hannibal Traven recently.”

_T__raven_. Nim fought herself to keep from scoffing. Raminus was on the Council too. What stance had he taken on dictating Mucianus’ fate? She wanted to believe he would have done everything in his power to keep him safe. She wanted to believe that Raminus would do the same for her.

"I did. You can speak with him about Nenyond Twyl. I'm not sure the report should be coming from me."

"Oh, of course," he began. "I will. I just... I'm glad to see you. You look..."

Raminus wanted to say that she was _glowing, _that the sun never looked so radiant on someone before. He wanted to say that if a hole was ripped in the sky of Mundus and a sliver of Aetherius shone through, its brightness would dull in comparison. Instead, Raminus bit his tongue.

“...your skin looks very tan," he said and his face immediately contorted into a wince of embarrassment.

Nim's eyes widened in response. She gave him a curious smile.

“Uh, true,” she said, looking down at her arms. “It is.”

“I mean, there is not much cloud coverage there in Anvil. I hope you’re taking care not to let yourself burn. I’ve read some studies released by the temple healers- apparently too much direct sunlight can cause massive blisters and overtime, with prolonged exposure, these--”

Nim chuckled softly and cut him off. “I’m doing well to care for myself," she said, "I'm an alchemist remember? I've got remedies. Though I do appreciate the concern.”

Raminus was mortified. He hadn’t spoken to her in nearly a month and the first thing he thought to mention was sunburns? At least she stopped him before he began speaking about pus filled lesions and melanoma. 

"And how goes the alchemy business?" He quickly asked, eager to move on from the previous topic of conversation. 

"I've got no complaints. It paid for my house after all."

“Oh, and how was the move? I should have gotten you a gift.” Raminus hadn’t even wished her a proper goodbye. Or a Happy Birthday. She had moved to Anvil in the blink of an eye before anyone knew she had left the University at all. He sorely wished that their last encounter had not been so turbulent and tense and covered in the flesh of dead necromancers.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary," she said, waving him off softly. "I have all I need. I’m sure you heard from Carahil, but it actually belonged to Lorgren Benirus many years ago. There was still a curse on it after all these years that we had to lift. Some house warming party, I'll say.”

“I think there are few people as qualified as you are to remove a necromancer from your home.” Raminus had meant it as a compliment but he watched her face fall with each word.

“Yes, well, it seems I’m only getting better at it then. Can I ask--”

She stopped herself suddenly. What was arguing over the Council’s decisions going to do now? Not bring Mucianus back, that’s for sure. She had told Raminus before and she had told Traven just yesterday that nothing was going to stop until they struck the heart of the cult. She could write it on the walls of the Arch-mage’s lobby and they probably would pretend they didn’t read Cyrodillic.

Raminus looked to her eagerly. “What’s that?”

“Nothing. Actually, I should probably head out if I want to make it to an inn on the Gold Road before midnight.”

Raminus opened his mouth as though to say something, then shut it, the voice catching in his throat. “Oh,” he replied, sounding regretful

Nim glanced out the window at the morning sun, eager to break eye contact. Somehow, it looked duller now than when she had awoken, some of its brightness leached away.

Turning to take her leave, she cast one last longing look at the Master Wizard before she opened the lobby door. He wore a strained grin, but his green eyes drooped as he held her gaze. As the lambent light of the lobby's brazier danced across his face, she thought she spied something familiar in his stare, something reminiscent of desire and disappointment.

“Raminus,” she called back, her voice nervous. She blinked up at him for a second, debating whether to finish her sentence. “We should have a drink sometime.”

“What?” He seemed to startle, and her heart raced.

“A drink at a tavern. Like a beverage, you know. Possibly one with alcohol.”

"Oh." Raminus' eyes went wide. “A drink.”

“If you want, of course. You must have _some _free time now that I’m not around to pester you.”

“You’ve never been a pest,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Thank you, Raminus. It’s nice to know I’m held in such high regards.”

“I mean, you’ve-,” he paused, as though considering, and for such a simple request, he stood silent in deliberation for quite some time. “A drink," he repeated. "Yes, that would be lovely.”

Nim's eyes nearly popped at the reply. “Oh, okay,” she said, still blinking rapidly in surprise. “Maybe next time I’m around the University, yeah?

Raminus almost asked to go now, as though if not this very moment he was convinced that it would never happen at all.

“Do you need to go back to Anvil today?" he asked, his voice lifting slightly. "I know Bothiel would be devastated if she missed you. If you can stick around a little while longer, we could go this evening. I-um, I’m not sure when I’d see you again otherwise.”

Nim looked on in sustained disbelief. She didn’t think the Master Wizard would accept the offer at all and if he did, it surely would have been out of politeness rather than genuine interest. But she had to ask anyway, even though she worried it might make him uncomfortable. It wasn’t kind to put him on the spot like that but by Dibella, she had been cursed with a yearning that made her impulsive and rash whenever she was around him.

“Can I meet you outside the gate, let's say seven?”

Raminus nodded. He looked surprised too, but for once, not uncomfortably so. 

* * *

Raminus and Nim sat at the King and Queen Tavern nursing their third round of beer. Raminus could tell by the slight slur of her speech that she was at least slightly buzzed as she prattled on about a particular lesson she was having with Carahil back at the Anvil guild hall.

“And so I was telling Carahil that the spell could in fact be used to remove the input of sensual information arriving at the olfactory bulb, but I couldn’t tell her at what stage of olfaction it really acts. Is it the epithelium, the glands, the neurons? And she said, well if it removes scent, then it is not really illusion is it? It would be alteration. Which was a good point, right?

"But you see it was a trick question. Nothing about the physical properties of the odor was being altered. Every particle passed through the nose as normal, it was only the perception in the target’s mind that was changed.

"So I said, well it must be at the level of the nervous system then. There must be a misfiring of the synapses that link olfactory information to the region of the brain that processes smell. But then I just became more confused. If the spell causes a change in the wiring of one’s mind, isn’t that also alteration?”

Raminus smiled thoughtfully as he watched Nim’s face scrunch up with an intense focus.

“But the mind misfires all the time,” he began, “that’s how much illusion comes to be. Nothing about the physical world is altered when you are dreaming or when an anxious mind convinces you that the shadow of a tree at your window is an intruder. Yet your perception is dramatically changed. So much so that you reach a point where you believe your reality is not the same as what truly is.”

“Huh. I mean it makes sense once I hear you explain it but I get so disoriented whenever I start thinking about what’s happening in the brain. I never really thought so deeply about how the magic affects physiology until I started working with Carahil. I admit, it is fascinating but it does make my head hurt a little bit. I'm spinning just thinking about it." She sighed dramatically and took a long drink of beer. "Godsblood, I have so much to learn.”

“The feeling never goes away, if I'm to be frank with you."

Nim frowned. "It doesn't?"

Raminus offered an encouraging nod. "No, but you will feel better about it the longer you study. It's humbling."

Her frown dissolved at that, looking slightly reassured. Her cheeks were rosy from the drink and her eyes crinkled at the corners as her smile reached them. Raminus felt a fist squeeze inside his chest.

"When I return to Anvil," she said. "I'll be working on illusion magic that alters the sense of touch."

"Well, I can only imagine that somatosensory perception will prove even more challenging than olfaction. You'll have your work cut out for you."

"I know right? So many factors are associated with the sense of feeling. Mechanoreception for pressure. Thermoreception for temperature fluctuation. Equilibrioception for one’s sense of balance and location within space." She waved her hands about her head, quite animated, as she prattled on. "It's a daunting task, but I'm determined to get it right this time around! Even if it takes a few trials and missteps."

Such pure excitement shook within her as she talked, and it was a refreshing conversation from the ones Raminus usually had with the higher-ranked mages and with his fellow members of the Council. The higher one rose in the Mages Guild, the gloomier one seemed to get, at least in these trying times. Funding was few and far between. Contention was ripe in the guild's governing body. The threat of Necromancy had only grown, and the outcome of Cyrodiil's politcal strife was still unknown... Raminus could go on and on, but the overarching pattern was clear. Turbulence and uncertainty seemed to sap the passion right out of many mages heart. He felt relief to know Nim was safe from this.

Watching her with a sideways glance, he took a rough breath and swallowed down his beer. Though he didn’t want to dampen their light-hearted banter about her studies, there was a matter he wished to discuss that had been weighing very heavily on his chest since last night.

“Traven informed the Council on what you found in Nenyond Twyll," he said. "I’m sorry that we hadn’t protected Mucianus better. I can only imagine how very disappointed you are in how things were handled.”

“Raminus, you really don’t want to hear what I think about Traven and the rest of the Council,” she murmurred, staring into the mouth of her beer bottle.

“Yes, I do.” Removed from first-hand conflict, no one else on the Council aside from Raminus had seen how disastrous the necromancer activity truly was. Nim was at the front lines of the action, and given the sensitive nature of their operations, it was likely that she would continue to be so. Her opinion mattered to Raminus and he would do his best to pass her message along to the Council. He hoped that at least offering a listening ear would do something to alleviate her worries.

“No, you don’t,” she echoed back, a steel edge to her voice. “I have nothing good to say at all. I am beyond disappointed. I am furious. What I see is a guild that has left its members in a state of desolation.”

“What can we do to fix it?”

“Did you vote to have the Battlemages sent after Mucianus?” she asked, her face solemn.

“Of course not," he assured her. "I wanted him returned as soon as his reports stopped arriving. I never doubted the veracity of his information or his loyalty to the guild. It was a dangerous task, yet he volunteered knowing the risks.”

Nim leaned her elbow against the counter of the bar and turned to face him. She looked at him with a meek, defeated smile.

“You alone can do nothing, Raminus. It’s a systemic problem. The Council has remained inactive at every chance they’ve had until it’s far too late. They are lethargic and feckless and-" she stopped herself, feeling a heat rise to her face. "You need an entirely new group of individuals to take their place, and I am sorry if that offends you. I know you are doing what you can, Raminus. I know that your position is not easy, but you know what line of action we need to take. We need to strike at the center. We need to learn who these people are, how they operate, so that we can move before they attack again. Any other action will be futile before then. Please, I have already told Traven my thoughts. Don’t make me say them again.”

They finished their drinks in brittle silence. Raminus debated asking her if she wanted another, if she wanted to stay a while longer, have a late dinner, anything so that they didn’t leave each other’s company with the heavy air of grief lingering between them. He wasn’t ready for their conversations to end, not like this, and when he saw her remove her coin purse from her pocket and place a ten-piece septim on the counter, his heart sank.

“Shall we?” She asked. Raminus nodded swallowing the protest that coagulated on his tongue.

* * *

The warm summer night felt thick in their lungs as they moved through the city towards the University. By the time they reached the Arboretum, the streets had grown quiet and empty save the flicker of oil lamps that lit the steps in front of them. Nim was leaning against Raminus as she gazed out towards the soft rustle of trees that lined the walkway. Maybe it was his lowered inhibitions that prevented him from gently nudging her away. Maybe he just missed her that much.

“Do you think there’s a place up there for us?” Nim asked Raminus quietly.

“Up where?”

She directed his eyes to the black sheet of night above them. The stars glittered above like crystals of sugar spilled across dark velvet.

“In the sky?” he chuckled, “you mean, do you think we will become stars when we die?”

“No,” she smiled, looking away briefly. “I mean, when our body dies what’s left of us?”

“When we die, our flesh is returned back to the soil and fed into the cycle of nutrients that gave life to us and everything else. The fungi and bacteria in the dirt will break us down to our bare essence, the nitrogen, the phosphorous, the carbon. It will all be recycled in one form or another. Back into the worms, the plants, the things that eat them. Our energy is never lost. It is conserved within the Universe.”

“And what of the pieces of ourselves we cannot see?”

“Our memory will live on.”

Nim shook her head and snorted softly. “Not everyone is memorable.”

“Well for those worthy of having their names writ down in history, their memory is directly preserved, but more often than not we live on indirectly. If we have children, some of our qualities and traits are passed on through our shared blood line. And our teachings and traditions will live on in the generations that come afterward from cultural practices that we choose to teach.”

“And our soul?”

Raminus shrugged. “That’s for the Gods to know.”

“Don’t you question it?”

Raminus shook his head. “Why? It is unknowable. There are so many things in the world that we can discover instead of fretting over that which we as mortals cannot hope to understand.”

“I suppose that is the benefit of keeping faith, to avoid having to question such things for oneself.”

“I thought you were a follower of the Nine.” Raminus remembered many instances of looking for Nimileth on early Sundas mornings only to find her on the city isle bridge as she was coming back from temple.

“Yes but... I think that’s all religion may be for me. I just want something to tell me how to be so that I don’t have to.”

“That’s how cults are formed, Nimileth," he chided playfully. "You don’t strike me as someone who would let themselves get brainwashed into a cult.”

“Meh, maybe we’d both be surprised,” she replied under her breath before darting off the cobblestone path. “Come, I want to introduce you to this tree.”

Raminus followed after her curiously. She led him off the street towards an old cottonwood, cracked at the trunk and leaning the bulk of its mass against the bows of a neighboring black oak.

“I call this beast a widow-maker,” she cooed, marvelling at the terrible thing.

Raminus gazed up, his face a mask of fascination and alarm. “I’m surprised the groundskeeper hasn't removed it yet. It looks like it will fall at any minute.”

“Sometimes I sit beneath him to meditate and pray after temple service.”

Raminus looked down at Nim. She was staring intently at the cottonwood tree, almost lovingly. _Alchemists are strange people _he reminded himself as he scanned the vegetation around him. They stood among shrubs of huckleberry and privet, embraced by the warm darkness and accompanied by the sporadic flickering of a troupe of lightning bugs.

“I’ve missed being around you,” she whispered, still staring at the tree.

Raminus shifted his weight onto his other foot. Nim and the cottonwood seemed to be sharing a tender moment, and he suddenly felt like an interloper.

“Raminus, did you hear me?” Nim asked, looking up at him with wide, hopeful eyes.

“Oh, I assumed you were talking to the tree.”

She blushed, thankful that the light was dim enough to hide it against her dark complexion.

“I mean, I do miss this tree. I miss a lot of things about the Imperial City.”

“Yes, the Imperial City does have its suite of resources. The climate here is much different than in the gold coast, I’d imagine. Not sure I would say it is preferable. Maybe a bit more mild in the summers, but I’d imagine winters in the Gold Coast are the place to be. We do have the benefit of well-maintained gardens that are open to the public here and--”

Nim reached out and tugged the sleeve of his robe, risking the contact she made with his arm. To her surprise, he did not pull away.

“I mean I’ve missed you, Raminus. Anvil is a beautiful place to live. The sea breeze is rejuvenating. The sun is doing wonders for my mental clarity. My work with Carahil has breathed new life into my studies as a mage, but it’s not the same as being around the friends I’ve made at the University, being around people who I care about, people who I--”

She sucked in a sharp breath to keep herself from saying something she would regret. Raminus had made it quite clear to her before that her close proximity made him uneasy. But in that moment he was leaning forward. She watched as he took a step closer. Or was that just the sway and imbalance from all the alcohol they had imbibed?

As she stood there with her hand on his sleeve, she watched the reflection of the moonlight dance across the moss green of his eyes. They glowed in Massers beams, a celestial radiance that smoldered as they searched her. Raminus parted his lips to speak again and she felt the beat of her heart in her throat. He laid a hand on her shoulder, his fingers curling around the bones there, squeezing tenderly. 

"You'll always have place here," he said. "You're always welcome back."

Gods, she wanted to kiss him. She wanted to kiss him _so badly_. Her gaze flitted across his face and she imagined herself as one stretched longing that held his name at her teeth.

“Let’s, um, head back then,” she stammered out, releasing her grip on his sleeve and pulling away from him slowly. “I need go uh... brew some potions.”

Raminus watched as she made her way through the huckleberry hedges and toward the main street. She swayed softly on her feet looking for him among the shrubbery as he stood still beneath the cottonwood. The torchbugs danced around her, illuminating the deep bronze of her skin in concert with the faint light of the oil street lamps. In sunlight and in velvet darkness, Raminus watched her glow.


	7. Word Travels Fast Here

**Chapter 7: Word Travels Fast Here**

Nim lay on the floor of the sanctuary training room. Her eyes traced the grout between the bricks above as her vision slowly returned from humming whiteness to the soft orange glow provided by the wall sconce. Vicente stepped into the corner of her periphery and peered down at her with concern.

“Come back to us, Nim,” he said and extended his hand toward her. She sat up slowly, accepting his offer, and he hoisted her onto her feet.

“Oof,” she muttered, bending to her right and releasing a _crack _along her spine. The metallic taste of blood danced across the inside of her cheek where she had bit herself during an elbow to the face in her latest spar with the vampire. She swallowed a sour mouthful and turned to Vicente, ready to hear his critique of her footwork and sloppy parries but startled upon spying a dark liquid streaked across his left cheek, another gash along his arm.

“What are you staring at?” Vicente asked. “By the look in your eyes, it would seem I’ve grown another head.”

Nim shook herself out of her shock. “Are you bleeding?”

Vicente looked down at his arm and ran his fingers along a cut that spanned his bicep. A thick, dark fluid glistened on his fingertips as he pulled them away, almost as dark as the torn fabric of the shirt that it stained.

“Hmm,” he smirked. “You’re decent enough with a blade. You might not be very powerful, but you’re quick. Seems you managed to get a few good cuts here and there. Why do you seem so surprised? I didn’t know you thought so poorly of yourself.”

Nim rolled her eyes at his playful jeering. “No, no. That’s not what I meant. I just didn’t know that vampires bled.” She had only really fought against one, and she had reduced him to a piled of flaming cinders.

“Oh. Yes, well the blood we feed on must go somewhere.”

Nim stared at the Vampire’s dark blood with knitted eyebrows. “So it’s not really your blood at all in that case, just what remains from your last meal? But you don’t have a heart beat. How does it circulate?”

Vicente shrugged and threw up his palms in defeat which drew a small shake of disapproval from the Bosmer.

“How can you not know?”

“Do you know everything about your bodily functions? When I poke you in the eye, what causes you to blink?" he goaded her. "When you're nervous, what causes your heart to race and your breathe to quicken?"

"Well the blinking would be due to my cranial nerves," she chirped pridefully. "One receives sensory information from the cornea and triggers a motor response carried out by a separate nerve that causes the muscles of your eyelid to contract. And as for what causes acute stress response, for that we shall discuss the sympathetic nervous--"

Vicente threw his hands up in a flippant gesture, cutting her off with a look of feigned exasperation. He accepted defeat with a sigh, but secretly, he swallowed an amused smiled.

"Alright, I didn't realize I was starting an argument with a temple healer," he joked. "I was infected when attack by a vampire clan in the Ashlands of Vvardenfell. My immediate reaction to the trauma was to be overcome with terror. I developed a bit of agoraphobia in those early years. I couldn’t really return to ask them to explain my new physiology.”

“Well, I would have thought that after a few centuries you would have had the time to ruminate on it and draw your own conclusions.”

“Come see for yourself if you’re so curious.” He nodded to Nim and beckoned her over with a wave. She took a cautious step forward as Vicente rolled up his sleeve.

“It’s almost black,” she mused as she inspected the wound, “and it’s so… viscous.”

“Well I don’t breathe either. There is no way to aerate the blood. I might not have a clear answer for you, but I have made some observations over time. Consuming blood restores my youth and brings life back to my flesh. Over time, the blood is used up, absorbed by my body. The longer I go without feeding, the more shriveled and aged I become. I don’t know how it circulates but my existence is entirely unnatural. There are other ways to be alive beside the one you know of.”

“Clearly,” Nim replied, lowering Vicente’s arm.

“Now that we’re done here, let’s discuss your next contract,” he said, but Nim was still distracted, her eyes focused on the black blood pooling at his arm. Noticing this, Vocente cast a healing spell over it to ward off her stare. He continued. “Lucien asked that this set be specifically assigned to you when he brought them in.”

“Set?” Nim queried with a raised brow. She wasn’t expecting more than one.

“Our Night Mother has received many prayers. I think Lucien was reasonable in his assignment. You’ll be the perfect person to fulfill them.”

“Oh, why is that?”

“They’re both to take place in the Imperial City and require the utmost discretion. This is the home of Commander Adamus Philida after all, and we don’t want to give him any more reason to go poking around in our affairs, hmm? The first, Valen Dreth, is a prisoner scheduled for release in the Imperial City prison. Ever broken out of jail?"

Nim swallowed the sudden burst of panic that shot through her body at the mention of the Imperial Prison. Gods, how she dreaded even the thought of returning there!

"Why would you assume that?" A whirlwind of ill memories filled her head, clouding it as she attempted to think of a way to weasel out of her contract. Her thoughts were soon interrupted as Vicente continued on.

"I only wanted to gauge how you'd feel about breaking in. Several years ago, a prisoner escaped from their cell using a secret tunnel system that connects with the Imperial City’s sewer system."

_How in the sixteen planes did the Dark Brotherhood know about that! _Nim blanched, drawing a concerned look from the Executioner.

"Anyway," Vicente drawled, narrowing his eyes at her curiously. "I think it will be a perfect way inside. I'll provide you with a key to a sewer grate that lies--"

“What makes you think that makes me perfect for this contract?” she blurted out. "Why would I know anything about the Imperial Prison?"

Nim attempted to hide the pang of dread in her chest with a blank stare, but the words had left her mouth too fast, too panicked. She hoped Vicente could not sense her rapidly rising heartbeat. There was no way he could know about her past in the prison. No, there had been no record of it!

“So jumpy, Nimileth,” the vampire snickered. He eyed the girl suspiciously as she maintained her unblinking gaze. “Not every comment I make is an afront to your skill or your character. This job requires an expert in infiltration. You will a receive a bonus if you kill Dreth without killing any of the prison guards. Given your penchant for remaining undetected, I thought this task would complement your skills quite well.”

“Ah, I see,” she murmured weakly. “Sorry.”

Vicente could sense her quickening pulse as he handed her the sewer key and finished outlining the details of Valen Dreth’s contract. Even without his supernatural abilities, it wouldn’t be hard to tell that the topic of prisons was making her uncomfortable. Maybe it was the mention of guards. Or maybe sewers. Neither were particularly pleasant.

“Your second contract was initially meant to be a man in Chorrol, but I've decided to give that one to Antoinetta. She's been rather stir-crazy here, and I think this might be a good practice in her self-control. She's not actually meant to kill the man, you see. She is staging a death. It's a very peculiar contract."

"I didn't realize we did those kinds of things here," Nim stated bemusedly. 

"The blood price is still paid. Sithis demands souls. Motierre, the one who placed the contract, has offered up an alternative. His own mother. Can you believe it?"

Nim only scowled.

"Besides," Vicente continued, waving off Nim's frown, "if you're already heading to the Imperial City, you might as well take this one we had laying around too. I think your skills as an illusionist will be put to much better use here.”

“Alright, tell me what I’ll be doing instead.” As long as it wasn’t another prison hit or taking out some feeble old lady, she’d willingly accept anything.

* * *

Nim hid in the dark shadows at the far wall of the cell opposite of Valen Dreth’s, the cell that she once inhabited years ago. Memories of her helplessness and the futile efforts to protect the Emperor filled her chest with a dull ache. Sitting on the grimy floor of the room in which she met the Emperor those many moons ago, the events of the Emperor's assassination and her escape never seemed so far away.

She let the shimmer of invisibility conceal her from the patrolling prison guard exchanging his final, bitter goodbyes with the Dunmer prisoner through the iron bars. She sat slumped up against the brick wall as she waited for the night to progress. Her detect life spell revealed that Valen was sitting at the table in his cell, most likely eating dinner by the motions of his glowing aura. Finally, he laid himself down on the floor, the rise of his chest gradually slowing to a steady rhythm as he drifted into sleep.

After making sure the hall was free of guards, Nim slipped out of her cell and peered through the bars to where her contract lie dreaming and unaware of her presence. She remembered him from the night of her escape, a creepy old Dunmer that leered at her when she woke up. Valen Dreth was now sleeping soundly on a bedroll along the left wall of his cell. Looking around the cell she spied a table and single chair, a barred window high up on the wall, chipped ceramic plates bearing leftover bones from his dinner, and a pitcher of water.

She debated using the same spell she had used on Rufio, but Dreth was not a weak old man. He was weak, certainly, but not in such poor health that her meager spell would be able to take him out, but it was possible that she could use it to her advantage. A simple slice along his neck would do him in just fine, but she didn’t want to cause a scene. She didn’t want people to know that she was here at all. Asphyxiation would be the easiest way to pass off his death, but strangling would cause the skin of his neck to bruise, thus giving away the presence of an intruder. Nim looked into the cell behind her. On the bedroll was a shabby straw pillow. A flash of inspiration overtook her.

Using an alteration charm, Nim released the lock on the cell and moved silently to where Valen Dreth slept. She held the pillow above his head and in one swift motion, she brought it down to smother his face as she cast her spell over his body. With Valen paralyzed, she straddled his chest and pinned his arms down with her legs. The paralysis began to wear off after a minute passed and Valen struggled beneath her, driving his knee weakly into her back. Nim refreshed her spell and pressed against his face fervently. The next time the spell wore off, the only sign of life below her was a sporadic twitch of his left leg as his aura faded.

Certain that he was dead, Nim dragged Valen’s limp body to the chair in the corner of the room and hoisted it up into a seated position. She struggled to keep him seated against the backrest as Valen slumped forward immediately, his head knocking the ceramic cup off table. Nim snapped a left-over chicken bone in half and worked it down his throat, shuddering as she lodged the fragment at the opening of his trachea. His insides were still warm.

She stepped back to gauge her work and sighed as his body once more fell forward onto the table. It was good enough for her and likely good enough for the guards too. No sign of trespass, no sign of foul play. A quick and dirty investigation would resolve the death as accidental, which was certainly less paperwork than a murder.

* * *

Killing her next mark, Faelian, was much simpler than she had expected and much more so than her stint in the Imperial prison. After discovering from his fiance that he had a particular sweet-tooth he frequently indulged in at a house across town, the opportunity readily presented itself. His fiance identified the house as belonging to a man named Lorkmir and after asking the local beggars for directions, she found her way to the Elven Gardens District.

Nim assumed this Lorkmir was Faelian's dealer, and upon finding a Nord’s dead body rotting in the basement with several more bottles of skooma tucked away in his pockets, she felt her suspicions had been confirmed. From the supply of skooma and moonsugar, the stashes of gold coin, and the cryptic notes she found in his house, Nim guessed this Lorkmir was running an illegal skooma trade in the city prior to his demise. She wondered if this Faelian was dangerous, but then again all skooma addicts were high-risk and unpredictable. Nim knew that better than most.

She laced every bottle in the house with a poison she brewed from the leaves of nightshade and wormwood and the seeds of the sacred lotus plants she found in the city water ways. It was the best she could concoct on such short notice. For the connoisseur he was, Faelian failed to notice any difference in taste as he greedily drank every bottle she had offered him. With the small pink bottles scattered all around his dead body, no one would be able to tell whether it was the skooma or the poison that did him in. Not even Nim knew. Skooma was one hell of a narcotic on its on.

She returned to Cheydinhal after a deep sleep and leisurely hike through the Heartlands. The fresh summer air and cool shade cast by verdant oaks did good to clear her mind of the lingering weave of gnawing guilt and perverse joy that bloomed inside her upon. She couldn't help it and she felt like a monster for it. The scheming, the artfully crafted coverups. How many could say they had the ability to get away with murder? It was entertaining, in its way.

Nim slipped through the Black Door cautiously, eyeing the engravings of Sithis and his kin with the same level of repulsion as the first time she saw it. Though she had passed through it numerous time now, she still expected the door to hiss and for her skin to burn every time she touched it. Whether it had welcomed her into the Sanctuary or not, she still did not trust the cursed thing.

Antoinetta twirled through the main hall, singing quietly to herself as Nimileth entered the Sanctuary’s main hall. A wide smile was plastered across the Breton woman’s face as she glided across the stone tile towards the living quarters. Nim skirted the edges of the room to avoid running into her as she made her way down to Vicente’s quarters. She wasn’t sure what the Breton could be so pleased about and given Nim’s knowledge of what kind of things made Antoinetta happy, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

Arriving at the bottom of the hall, Nim knocked softly on Vicente’s door. Lorise called for her to enter from the other side.

“Vicente’s not in?” Nim asked, poking her head into the room.

Lorise sat mending her amor, and with her eyes still on her needlework, pointed up toward the ceiling. “He’s with Ocheeva. They’re discussing your advancement.”

Nim's eyes went wide. “What? So soon?” How on Nirn could they know her contracts were already fulfilled? “I’ve hardly done anything noteworthy in my time here.”

Lorise shook her head softly and laid her armor out on the table. She smiled warmly at Nim. “You’re not going to get very far with false modesty. Vicente tells me all about your methods of execution.”

“Oh yeah?” She frowned. “Well I hope he’s getting the details right if he’s going to be a blabber mouth.”

Lorise stifled a smile at Nim's flustered tone and stood to her feet. “Have you eaten? Vicente has been telling everyone to feed you while you’re here.”

“Stendarr on stick," she pouted. "Does he think he’s my father? I can take care of myself.”

“Sure," Lorise said with a mocking little cluck of her tongue as she eyed the younger Bosmer's slight frame. "But you can't blame me for being doubtful, now can you? Anyway, I’m going to head up and have lunch myself. You should join me.”

Seeing as she had nothing better to do with Vicente being occupied, Nim followed after Lorise as they made their way to the living quarters.

“I saw Antoinetta a bit earlier today," she said. "She seems to be in a good mood. Did I miss something while I was out?”

“Netta's always in a good mood when _he _comes to visit." 

“When who comes to visit? Why did you say it like that?”

“Our esteemed Speaker, of course. Who else?” Lorise drawled with a saccharine tone. "I think they had a day."

"A day of what?"

"Oh, Nimileth," Lorise chuckled. "One day, when you're older, you'll know just what I mean."

Nim chose to not to question it any further, but her mind did wander to Lucien. She hadn’t seen him since their meeting in Fargeyl Inn. After Ocheeva had mentioned that he didn’t live in the sanctuary, she assumed she would ever see him again. In fact, she had nearly forgotten his existence entirely.

The two women moved through the thick wooden doors of the living quarters. On the far side of the room, Antoinetta brewed herself a cup of tea and hummed merrily to herself with a smile so wide it looked painful. Schemer sat at her feet waiting patiently for a snack. Upon rounding the corner, Nim spied M’raaj-Dar who rose quickly from his seat at the dining table and gathered his belongings. He sneered and shoved past her, making his way out of the room.

“What did I do to him?” Nim frowned as she looked over her shoulder and watched his tail disappear behind the door.

She suspected that she had made a poor first impression when she first introduced herself to him, but M’raaj-Dar eagerly avoided her even now, more than a month later. On the day she arrived at the Sanctuary, Vicente had told her that the Khajiit was the local fence and a merchant of potions and spells, and so she happily wandered over to meet him. She hadn’t expected him to be such a handsome man and she certainly didn’t expect he would be so rude after everyone else in the Sanctuary had given her such a warm welcome. Thus, Nim found herself speechless as he berated her and all she could do in response was admire the gloss of his fur and the strong, white markings along his face. All the while, the Khajiit growled at her that though the tenets prevented him from killing her, he certainly didn’t need to like her.

“It’s not personal, Nim,” Lorise replied as she began gathering plates and a cutting board. ”M’raaj-Dar has a hard shell. Maybe he’ll warm up eventually, just don’t try to chip away at him.”

“Hmph,” Nim lamented, wishing she didn’t have such a soft spot for the feline race. If he didn’t like her, she wished he would at least tolerate her presence in the same room. He was awfully pleasing to look at.

“Back so soon?” Antoinetta asked. She blew at the steam rising from her mug of tea and took a seat beside Nim, who nodded.

“It was a simple contract.”

A playful glint danced in the Breton's irises.“Ah, that’s not what I heard. You can't fool me.”

Nim resisted the urge to roll her eyes and released an exasperated sigh. How fast could word travel in these parts? “Well, I don’t know what you heard, but I’m telling you it wasn’t much. A lot of sneaking and hiding. That’s the bulk of my assignments. Besides, the men I kill wouldn't have lasted very long before death claimed them anyway.”

Antoinetta shook her head in disapproval and laughed. "I don't get you! Accept the glory, for Sithis' sake! What harm can come from a little pride in your work, hmm?"

"That's just what I was telling her," Lorise added while chopping away at a log of dried meat. Nim noted that Schemer had relocated to the woman's feet and was quite successful in acquiring scraps. A slice here, and then a scrap for Schemer. A chop there and then a slice for Schemer. No wonder Antoinetta called him a _fat, fat, fatty. _She'd never seen a rat so rotund in her life. 

“Our Speaker was here,” Antoinetta said. "You missed him."

Nim pulled her eyes away from the chubby rat, and smirked mischievously at Antoinetta. "Is that what's put you in a mood?"

The Breton blushed and wrinkled her brows, doing her best to feign oblivious and failing miserably. "What do you mean?" 

"You're fond of him, aren't you?" Nim asked. Lorise snorted from across the room but otherwise said nothing. 

"Oh, Nim. What kind of question is that? We're all fond of him," she replied as though stating something as obvious as _the sky is blue _or _there are two moons in the sky_. "Our Speaker takes wonderful care of us here and he's remarkably busy doing so. He doesn't visit very often. You should have been here_. _It's a way to show respect and appreciation."

At that Nim scrunched her face in displeasure. "I guess. It's not like we have business together. I don't see how my being there makes any difference at all."

“Well, he’s the one who assigned you those contracts. He told me all about them. Well, he told all of us really.”

“Mhm.” Nim didn’t look up from pouring herself a glass of water. _Blabbermouths, the lot of them_, she grumbled silently. After all she did to make her contracts look accidental, to make her murders appear as if she had never been there at all, and here was the Speaker telling the whole of the Sanctuary about it!

“He asked for you.”

“Who?”

“Lucien.”

“Oh? What did I do?” Nim poured over her past contracts in her mind with a sudden knot of anxiety twisting in her gut. “I didn’t botch a murder, did I?”

“No, it wasn’t like that," Antoinetta told her. "He wasn’t angry. You would know if you were in trouble. The last time I saw Lucien deal with an insubordinate brother, it took me a full week to get the blood off of my boots.”

Nim wrinkled her nose at the mental image of such a scene. Whoever cleaned the Sanctuary did a wonderful job in that case. Not a spot of blood in the grout, and _e__verything_ was difficult to get out of grout this deep.

“Then what did he want?” she asked, half-heartedly

“He just… wanted to know how you were settling in, I guess. He said he had something for you. I think he was disappointed to have missed you.”

Nim peeped out of the corner of her eye as she sipped from her cup. Antoinetta’s previously cheerful expression had dimmed to a small, fragile frown.

“Maybe I’ll be around to collect it next time.”

“Yeah, maybe. You're not here all that often.”

Finally, Lorise returned to the table with a tray of sliced meats and cheese, and the three women fell into idle chatter as they shared the platter amongst themselves.

“So, um, sisters,” Nim spoke in between bites. The word still felt strange, felt foreign on her tongue. “Can I ask you something that’s been on my mind. Everyone is so cheerful and happy here. Do you actually take pleasure in your work? In murder?”

Lorise flashed a brilliant grin. “Of course," she said. "I wouldn’t be Grand Champion of the arena if I didn’t enjoy the rush of battle. You’re telling me that you don’t enjoy it?”

Nim leaned her head back and popped a grape into her mouth. She furrowed her brows, deep in thought as she chewed.

Antoinetta gasped at the young elf’s hesitance. "What, not at all? It's unheard of!"

“No, that’s not quite it. I do but very rarely. It’s been more of a necessity in my life than anything.”

“A necessity?” Lorise chuckled and shook her head, finding the thought entirely absurd. “Any of us could have chosen another route in life, yet we decided to serve Sithis. What we gain from this union might differ, but we stay because we choose too.”

Antoinetta nodded enthusiastically. “There is no rush stronger than that of a well-executed kill. Surely you’ve recognized that?”

Nim couldn’t deny the burst of adrenaline that coursed through her when she watched her arrow pierce the neck of Alessia Caro. Every thrill she sought afterward dulled in comparison. To know that woman would never pollute the air with another breath brought a satisfaction so sick and cloying to Nim's heart that she felt a simper creep to her face even now, months later.

Antoinetta continued.

“When I’m preparing for a contract, my heart beats so fast I think it is trying to beat free of my chest, like it's going to crack a rib. My senses are heightened, and the entire world is screaming at me. Every noise is louder. Every color is brighter. Those sensations alone are addicting, like moon sugar.”

“I know that feeling, but I’ve really only felt once," Nim shrugged. "And even then it was all about the buildup, knowing that I was delivering the final judgement to someone who deserved it. Truly deserved it. When I kill for a contract, I feel nothing. Stealing, on the other hand. That’s a rush. I live for the shadows, the suspense of remaining undetected. Well, I used to at least.”

“Isn’t murder just another form of stealing?” Lorise asked, “You’re taking another’s life, one that you have no right too.”

“I steal objects," Nim said, as though offering a correction. "The soul is a living thing. It doesn’t belong to anyone. Even the ones we possess now are only borrowed. They're pieces of the Divines granted to us for our brief time on Nirn, and they will return to Aetherius once our bodies are dead. I do not steal the souls of other beings."

"Then what is murder?" Antoinetta huffed. She looked painfully confused. She laid her head in her palm and frowned as she nibbled a cracker, looking as though her head hurt from all this talk of the Divines. "I don't know anything about souls or religion, but I do not that when I stab someone and their blood spills forth, it makes me feel strong."

"Murder is but a cheap show of strength," Nim explained. "To kill another, destroy the flesh. Everyone dies eventually, Antoinetta, whether we strike them down or not. There is nothing powerful in taking what belongs to no man."

Antoinetta furrowed her brows at Nim and pouted. "Well, it makes me feel powerful."

"I suppose nothing can take that from you then," Nim shrugged and passed her the grapes. She clinked the Breton's glass with her own and took a quick sip. "Cheers. All the more power to you, I say."

"And what about you, Nim?" Lorise asked. "What makes you feel powerful?"

Nim replied without any hesitation. "I like a challenge. Illusion magic for example. To bend light and make yourself unseen, to take the voice out of another’s mouth, to force one against their own will. That’s true power to me.”

“Lofty words for a lowly murderer.” Vicente’s sudden interruption caused Nim to jump in her seat. A florid blush flushed her cheeks and she quickly his her red face behind a long drink of water. “Or should I say Eliminator now.”

"Eliminator!" Antoinetta gasped. "Congratulations, Sister." She offered Nim a smile and gently squeezed the elf’s upper arm.

Nim was now a rank higher than her Breton companion, and she returned the smile with a soft nod of appreciation, but found that Antoinetta’s eyes did not look as happy as her words sounded.

“Lucien was in earlier," Vicente said. "He came with more contracts for you."

"How thoughtful of him," Nim replied dryly.

"He was very sorry to have missed you in this visit. You know, he’s rather impressed with how well you’ve taken to your duties here.”

Nim stared blankly into her cup of water. “So I hear.”


	8. A Timid Heart in a Cruel Chest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nim receives a bonus from her Speaker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucien returns finally. Every time I write him, I get a little skeeved out, because yes, I am writing him as a creep :p
> 
> so TW for him being a touchy creep.

**Chapter 8: A Timid Heart in a Cruel Chest**

Nim sat on her knees in the living quarter washroom and dangled her head over the edge of the tub as she worked the soap into a thick lather. The sound of water trickling from her hair into the metal tub below was her only companion in the Sanctuary’s living quarters this evening, and for that she was thankful. Ocheeva assured her that everyone in the family respected each other’s privacy in the single washroom of the Sanctuary, and Nim certainly wanted no reason to disagree with her. Still, the idea of stripping bare in a den of assassins unsettled her more than sleeping in a room full of them. What if M’raaj-Dar walked in? She couldn’t bear even the thought of such embarrassment.

Vicente had convinced her to stay in Cheydinhal for longer than she had intended, especially after acquiring her next contract, a warlord residing in a fort in the western reaches of Cyrodiil. She breathed a sigh of relief when she found out her new mark would be close to Anvil. The company of her fellow brothers and sisters was much more enjoyable than she had anticipated, alarming so, but even then her empty house and the welcome solitude it provided called for her return.

Nim mulled over her advancement as she rinsed the grime from her hair. Vicente had explained to her that she was to receive her contracts from Ocheeva now that she attained the rank of Eliminator, but she still didn’t understand what difference it made whether she received them from one Executioner or the other. Either way, Vicente made her promise that the two of them would maintain her training regime. She happily agreed. Ever since they started training, Nim found her leather armor fitting tighter, and she swore that she could see a little more muscle definition on her scrawny arms. Much to her disappointment, Vicente disagreed, informing her that it was simply a trick of the shadows cast in dim lighting. He was not yet satisfied with her progress, and as a consequence Nim found herself perpetually sore and bloodied from the spars they engaged in during her free time at the Sanctuary.

She stepped into the tub and sat on the edge in a pair of linen shorts and a bandeau as she wiped the streaks of blood and dirt off her body with a warm rag. She grimaced, sucking in through her teeth, each time she passed the cloth over the purple and yellow bruises that dappled the skin of her arms and thighs. Most of them were from Vicente. A few were from Lorise. Between the two of them, she was receiving an excellent education in close quarter combat, and though she acknowledged the ache of her body as a sign of growing strength, her knuckles were so bloody and raw that she could hardly bear to clench her fist. Lorise told her that if she didn’t use her magic to heal them and instead let the scars form, the flesh there would callous. Then It wouldn’t hurt so bad when she practiced unarmed the next time. She tested the fresh wounds on her knuckles with a wiggle of her fingers and winced.

“Eliminator.” A voice like smoke seeped in through the silence. “It’s a pleasure to see you again,” it said.

Nim gasped and dropped her washcloth as the Speaker appeared in front of her. She hadn’t even heard him enter. He stood in dark robes with his hood pulled back, and Nim realized she had never seen his face unshrouded until now. His skin was a cool beige, his face weathered and sharply angled, redolent of a mountain cliffside and perhaps of his Breton heritage. He wore his black hair oiled and pulled back at the base of his skull. It shimmered beneath the light.

Nim stared at him unblinking, and he maintained a soft expression, not quite smiling, despite the steady gaze.

“Lucien, er, Speaker.” She fiddled with the chain of her amulet, making a weak attempt to cover herself.

Did he have no concept of what situations called for privacy? Heat rose to Nim's cheeks and she pulled her wet hair forward, draping it over her shoulder to shield herself. She wasn't sure how she was expected to act around a Speaker, and part of her wondered how a Speaker was supposed to act around her. Like this, coming and going as he pleased? It seemed... unreasonable. At best.

She didn’t know much about Lucien, didn’t much care to. Teinaava and Ocheeva spoke so highly of him, with such love blossoming from their words it sounded like sugar spilling past their mouths. Lucien had also raised them from hatchlings, so she supposed such fondness made sense. Nim didn't know what it was like to have father, but whatever relationship the Argonians had with him seemed _wholesome,_ however strange the circumstances.

Everyone else in the Sanctuary spoke of the Lucien warmly but with the formal respect assigned to authority, everyone except Antoinetta, who took her admiration to strange heights. The girl seemed to worship the man. Aside from the anecdotes given to her by her fellow assassins, Nim didn't understand what it was about the Speaker that made him worthy of such high praise. For all she knew of him, he talked a lot and liked to be in places where he ought not to be. 

“How- how are you?” she asked at last, steeling herself and sitting straighter. 

“Fine. Thank you for asking.”

Nim forced herself to meet his eye. In the orange light of wall sconces, in the eerie silence of the room, Lucien was looking at her strangely, as though seeing her for the first time.

“It’s been some time since we last spoke,” he said.

“Yes, um, is it really necessary that we have to meet whenever I’m in a state of undress? I'm no prude now, but I’d really prefer that this not be made a habit.”

“You needn’t be ashamed. You wear your bruises well.”

Nim lowered her arms and looked down at the splotches of discolored skin before casting a puzzled frown up at Lucien. “Thank you?” She’d never heard such a compliment before. At least she thought it was a compliment. “What else would I do with them?”

“You certainly shouldn’t hide them.” His gaze flickered away from her eyes and across her arms, down to a yellowed patch marring the skin of her ribs. She tensed beneath his surveying. “I hope Vicente’s not treating you too roughly.”

Lucien hadn’t move at all since he made his presence known to her. He stood with his hands clasped in front of him and stared down at Nim, who was still trying very hard not to pull away from his attempt at making eye contact. 

“S'not really so bad,” she assured him. “I need to be thrown around every now and then. To humble myself.”

“Then your humility is commendable. You’ve been rising through our ranks swiftly in your short time with us.”

“Keeping tabs on me?" Seeing as he had no intention to make himself scarce while she bathed, she reached down for her washcloth and continued wiping off the layers of dried blood and dirt. Lucien watched intently, and she continued. "I hope your information is coming from a credible source, seeing how we haven’t spoken since Faregyl Inn. To be honest, I didn’t expect we’d be seeing much of each other.”

“I’ve visited," he said, as though making a point. "But you don’t seem to linger about the Sanctuary for very long. Your social life must keep you very busy.”

The edge in his voice made her stomach lurch. She glanced up to see the Speaker’s lips curl into small, mischievous grin and promptly returned her focus to scrubbing at her foot with intense ferocity. Lucien had been able to find her in the Imperial City and in Anvil. He must have asked around. What had he learned in his search and just how much did he know about who she was outside of the Dark Brotherhood? Certainly more than she was comfortable with.

“I’ve been tracking your progress,” he continued. “You showed much promise when we met, and I’ve yet to be disappointed.”

“Well, I live to serve I guess," she said, her voice distant. 

"We both know you're capable of much more than that."

"Say, aren’t you the one who provides Vicente with my contracts?" she asked. Gentle creases formed on her forehead as she furrowed her brows, rinsing away the soot on her legs with a splash of water. "I’ve been assigned so many in my time here. Surely you’ve played as much a part in my advancement as I have.”

“Is that your way of saying thank you?”

“No," she corrected him. "I was just saying you’re largely responsible for how swiftly I’ve advanced. It shouldn’t be a surprise to you that I am where I am. It's really not so impressive a feat when you think about.”

Lucien chuckled. The sound echoed around her.

“Nimileth,” he said, and the name rolled off his tongue with such ease it made her shiver. “I heard about what you did to Valen Dreth and Faelian.”

“Yes?” Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw him move a few more paces closer. “And?”

“They were perfect cover-ups. Not so much as a whisper of suspicion from the Imperial Watch.”

She waited, keeping track of his black boots in her periphery, and expected the Speaker to continue. She frowned when he did not. “But not to your liking, I’m guessing.”

“You don’t need to make every one of your contracts look accidental. There’s nothing wrong with spilling blood and letting your craft be known to the world.”

Nim squinted at him, found a glint of malicious delight dancing in the hickory brown of his eyes. It made her stomach knot, and she released a deep huff through her nostrils, attempting to relieve the uncomfortable feeling.

“I don’t understand," she said shaking her head. "You assigned me to take care of Baenlin and now Roderick, both of which carry specifications to make their death look accidental. I’m only doing what I’m asked.”

“Skulking like a shadow," he whispered, the sibilance making her shudder once more. "Is that really all you think yourself capable of?"

"As opposed to?" 

"I see what you've been doing. Passing through the room like a stray draft of wind and taking the breath of your victims with you as you go. I’m giving you what you asked for, an easy way to fulfill your duties to Sithis, but I know it's not really what you want.”

The urge to laugh tickled the back of her throat. She swallowed. “And what do you know of my desires?”

“I know that you’re afraid to sate them.”

Nim blinked at him, face contorted in bewilderment. “Pardon?” 

“You’re afraid of how easy it would be for you." Lucien waved a gloved finger in the air and tutted. "Timid, little Nimileth. You’re afraid of how much it excites you."

"How much what... excites me?"

"The decadence," he said. "The dissolution. Don't pretend you don't know of what I'm describing."

She hummed at, unconvinced. "Mhm. I'm listening."

Lucien's smile deepened, his eyes somehow darker than they were minutes before.

"When you killed Alessia Caro, you lost yourself in the thrill of the hunt, and what you found afterwards was something primal and insatiable. The contracts we fulfill as children of the Dread Father are akin to art. Our compositions deserve to be applauded. Your work deserves to be feared.”

Nim wiped the cloth across her face, shielding the eye roll from her Speaker's persistent stare. _Not the metaphors again_, she thought. She couldn’t handle another of his verbose diatribes.

“Well, if we’re _artists,_” she mimicked, adding emphasis with her hands to underscore the absurdity of the comparison, "then let me do with the materials as I see fit. You don’t want to restrict my creative expression, now do you? That defies the very principle.”

Eager to end the conversation or cover up at the very least, Nim stepped out of the tub and grabbed her towel from the ground, draping it around herself like a cloak as she waited for Lucien’s reply. His eyes trailed a path from her neck to the curve of her cheekbones and then up to her eyes. Only the soft drip of water trickling off the ends of her hair filled the silence between them.

“You could be so much more if you only let yourself go.” Smooth and sincere, his tone, entreating her.

“Your confidence in me is...” _Misguided? A little ghoulish?_ “...appreciated,” was the word she settled on.

Lucien chuckled softly. “One day you’ll know the cold embrace of Sithis as I do. It will be like seeing color for the first time. I'm almost envious.”

"I’ll mull over your suggestions,” she said while patting herself dry. “Any more recommendations, or do you intend to stand there like a freelance gawper until we take our leave?”

“Would you like to hear another?” 

Nim stood there, awed by his persistence and feeling incredibly ridiculous with the towel draped over her head and only her bare legs sticking out. “I’ll entertain you if you’re intent on it.”

“How gracious. You were much more amiable when we first met.”

She offered him a frown of false concern. “They say faulty memories are said to be an early symptom of dementia."

"And should I be concerned for you?" he asked and donned a worried look that matched Nim's theatrics with equal zeal.

"No I-" she began with a huff and then paused, seeing how he had clearly bested her with her own quip. "You didn't leave me much of a choice that night, given how _polite_ of a guest you were."

Lucien could only grin. "Well, here I was hoping it would be longer lived."

Without anything more to add to the topic, Nim looked away from the Speaker and dipped her toes in the puddle at her feet. "While you're here, Antoinetta mentioned that you wanted to speak with me. Is that what you've come for? She said you had something to give me.”

The man raised a brow, feigning surprise at Antoinetta's ability to spread gossip like a wildfire on dried fescue. “Did she now?”

“Well? Was she telling the truth or was she just teasing me?” Nim squatted down to pick up her cotton chemise. She slipped it over her head and when she peered out through the neck hole, Lucien had stepped closer. He continued forward, stepping around the tub until only inches stood in between.

His eyes fell to the gold chain of the spell-drinker amulet that hung around her neck. He reached for it and Nim tensed as he lifted it out from the collar of her gown. He held the pendant in his hand, staring at it curiously with a closed-lip smile that didn't look quite as genuine as it had moments ago. Nim drew a sharp breath and instinctively reached up to pull the amulet out of his grasp.

“Pretty," he hummed. "You wore this when we met."

"Uh, I guess."

"Do you ever take it off, I wonder.” He leaned closer, his brow nearly meeting hers.

Nim swallowed, her voice heavy in her throat. “What are you doing?”

Panic swelled within her as she felt his breath ebb and break against her forehead. She took a step backward and kept her eyes trained on his left hand as it reached into the pocket of his robes and withdrew a fist from which a copper chain dangled through clenched fingers.

Nim froze as Lucien stepped around her and swept her wet hair over left shoulder. The fine hairs at the nape of her neck prickled as he grazed his hand across her clavicle, rested it on the chain of her amulet. He released the clasp holding it together, and the chain dangled and swayed around her arm as she clutched it in her hand. In its place, Lucien slipped a copper necklace over her head and fastened it around her neck.

“Its name is Cruelty Heart,” he whispered, a low hum beside her ear. He pressed his hands to either side of her shoulders, squeezing tenderly. “How fitting for such a timid little thing.”

Nim glanced down at the copper pendant. A glistening red gem winked back at her from its center. The magicka emanating from the amulet tingled across her chest where it lay flush against her skin. The magnitude of its power was palpable, much stronger than the charm on the necklace she was wearing minutes ago.

She was still inspecting the amulet when Lucien released his grasp on her and stepped to the side. He scanned her, as though searching for a hint of discernable expression in her vacant face. He looked disappointed.

“What is this enchantment?” She asked, probing her mind for a name to place on the pulsating magicka she felt bloom across her chest.

“It fortifies the wearers willpower and strength," he said, his voice a touch paler now. "Consider this a bonus and a reminder of our conversation. I think you will benefit from it greatly.”

Nim placed her free hand on the pendant. She fingered the shallow engravings along its edges and stared into the small puddles of water that lay at her feet.

It was... nice, however strange this encounter was. It was just a gift, she told herself, a bonus for a job well done. Lucien wouldn’t expect anything of her if she accepted the amulet, would he? It bore a potent power that she would make frequent use of, and it would be rude to reject a gift, even if he so rudely interrupted her bath time. Or perhaps she was just making excuses to keep it, greedy thing she was.

She looked down at the amulet again, glittering red like blood before the moonlight. She couldn't shake the feeling that accepting it from him was somehow... wrong.

“Um, how thoughtful of you, Speaker," she said, looking up with a forced a smile. "Thank you.” Quickly as she could, she gathered up her crumpled clothing, keeping her gaze averted from Lucien's all the while. "If you don't mind, I need to go... brew some potions," she called over her shoulder, scurrying past him towards the door to the living quarters.

Lucien nodded, a coldness growing in his eyes as he watched her leave.

As soon as the door shut behind her, Nim sprinted around the corner and pressed her back up against the far wall, out of view from the washroom entrance. She waited with held breath until she heard the soft c_lick_ of the washroom door being closed and the sound of muted footsteps travelling away from her. Peeping the very tip of her head around the corner, she spied the Speaker and the bottom of his black robes disappearing behind the doors of the living quarter.

“Ugh.” She shuddered as she shuffled off towards her bed. "Gods, what a creep."

Her skin still prickled, the ghost of Lucien's light touch whispering over her. He could have given the amulet to her at any time other than this and she would have been infinitely more grateful, could have just left it with Vicente or Ocheeva, could have left it on her bed.

_Did he enjoy that_, she wondered and shivered again at the implication.

* * *

Nim sat on her bed in the living quarters, towel drying her hair as she waited for her two friends to return with dinner. She looked down at the amulet resting on her chest. It was plain copper and elegantly engraved. Pretty, but nothing compared to the spell-drinker amulet that Raminus had given her. Still, it was nice to have jewelry, not that she had many places to wear it these days. She picked it up again, letting the light catch the ruby that twinkled back at her, and groaned, scolding herself for caring so much about trifling, materialistic things.

She should be grateful for Lucien's amulet, no matter how strange the manner it which it was received. How many people gifted her such beautiful crafts? She thought of Raminus and splayed the spell-drinker amulet out on the bed in front of her with a sigh. She’d never receive a gift as exquisite as that one again, she was sure of it. It remained the most beautiful piece of jewelry in her possession. Well, aside from the Amulet of Kings, but that didn't truly belong to her.

The sound of a heavy slam against the stone wall drew her attention to the entryway. Lorise had kicked the door in and stood with her back pressed against it, holding it open to let Antoinetta pass through. In their arms they carried large, brown paper sacks overflowing with fresh produce and a few loaves of bread.

Nim tucked her amulet beneath her shift, feeling compelled to hide for reasons unknown to her. It suddenly felt like something she should not possess.

“Finally you took a bath,” Lorise teased. She set her grocery bag down on the dining table and threw a fresh pear in Nim’s direction. “I thought you were beginning to grow algae."

Ever mature as she was, Nim replied by blowing a raspberry.

“Do you want to borrow my comb, Nim?" Antoinetta offered. "It’s in a wooden box in my chest. I’ll get it in a second.” Antoinetta scampered over to the foot of her bed and dug through her chest. She retrieved an ornate ivory comb, a token from one of her first contracts, and handed it to Nim with a warm smile. “Hey, what’s that you got there?” she asked and pointed at the copper chain peeping out from the collar of Nim’s night shirt. “Is it new? And why’s your amulet on your bed? You cleaning it or something?”

As Antoinetta walked back to the kitchen, Nim began working through her knots with the wide teeth of the comb. She cast a mistrustful glance toward the living quarter door. “You didn’t see Lucien out there did you?” she asked.

“Lucien was here?” Antoinetta’s eyes went wide as she unpacked a bag of dried meats and crackers. The eagerness in her voice did not go unnoticed. 

“You didn’t see him?" Nim asked, taking note of her longing gaze toward the living quarter door. "We only spoke, what, fifteen minutes ago.”

“No, I didn’t see him,” Lorise replied. “Vicente didn’t tell me he was expecting our Speaker.”

“Oh." Nim cast a detect life spell and darted her eyes to the perimeter of the room, confirming that only Lorise and Antoinetta sat with her. "Well, I can only hope he’s gone now.”

“What’s that for?” the Breton asked, watching as the purple light of the spell dissipated.

“Double checking. That man has a tendency to lurk, he does.”

“Speaking from personal experience?” Lorise inquired. Her tone was playful, but her gaze betrayed a sincere concern that left Nim confused and a little uneasy. Sure, Lucien was a little intense and had little understanding about what circumstances called for privacy and personal space, but she had no reason to fear the Speaker.

Did she?

Nim turned to Antoinetta. “It’s a new necklace,” she replied flatly, pulling the pendant out from her night shirt. She held it in her palm and stared into the red, center gem with a crooked grin. “Lucien gave it to me.”

Both of her companions stopped unpacking at once and stared on with raised brows. Antoinetta looked mildly shocked. Lorise, perturbed.

The older Bosmer broke the silence first. “He did?” She stared at Nim intensely, jaw clenched and eyes so piercing Nim felt them on her skin like probing needles.

“Why are you looking at me like that?" Nim said. "It’s just a bonus.”

“Why didn’t he give it to Vicente then? Vicente handles all your rewards.”

“I guess he wanted to give it to me personally. Vicente was just telling me that our Speaker was sorry to miss me when he last visited. That's all.”

“Where did you run into him?” Lorise questioned again without pause, the gravity in her voice unexpected. Nim grew increasingly uncomfortable. “We stepped out for half an hour at the most."

“It wasn’t a long meeting. He was just saying hello.”

"I thought you were bathing?”

Nim's mouth fell open and suddenly, she grew terribly embarrassed. She turned away from Lorise and ran the comb through her damp hair, stroking harder, pulling faster. She hadn't realized what it would sound like to outsiders, and suspecting Antoinetta's affection for their Speaker, she found herself feeling rather ashamed for it. What if someone had seen the two of them together in the washroom? What would the situation have looked like to a bystanders eyes?

Lorise opened her mouth to pry further and promptly shut it upon spying the rosy bloom in Nim’s cheeks. Her eyes flickered over to Antoinetta who was toying with the fine hairs of her neck with a sullen frown. Lorise stalked across the room and plopped herself down at the foot of Nim’s bed. She held out her palm and curled her fingers toward her, motioning for the younger Bosmer to hand the necklace over.

"Show me," she said, her voice pointed.

Nim unlatched the chain and dropped it into her waiting hands, feeling a weight lift just by handing the silly thing off.

Antoinetta scurried closer and peered over Lorise’s shoulder to look at the pendant. “It’s awfully lovely,” she murmured. A glint of longing twinkled in her pale blue eyes.

"It was kind of him to drop it by, I guess," Nim said, scratching at an itch on her cheek as she watched her friends inspect the necklace. “It must have been expertly enchanted. I’ll certainly make good use of it." 

Antoinetta looked up and wrinkled her nose. “Then why don’t you look pleased? You sound like you're trying to convince yourself that you like it."

"I like it," Nim muttered, directing her attention away from the jewelry and back to combing her hair. "Really, I do."

Antoinetta looked back at the necklace with a fragile smile. Lucien had never given her anything quite like that. He'd given her... other gifts. Nothing quite so permanent as the copper pendant in Lorise's hand. 

Lorise picked the spell-drinker amulet off the bed and turned it towards Antoinetta, holding the two necklaces side by side. “But it’s kind of dull in comparison, don’t you think.”

“Well, I don’t know that I’d call it dull,” the Breton retorted. “Nim said it has a powerful enchantment”

"Hmph." Lorise turned her nose up, unconvinced. She set the necklaces back down on the bed "What do you think, Nim?”

“Me?” Nim pulled at a hard knot and ripped out a ball of hair with a small yelp. “I think maybe I ought to buy my own jewelry from now on.”


	9. Until The Ocean Swallows You

**Chapter 9: Until The Ocean Swallows You**

Vicente lay wedged in the corner of Lorise’s bed at her Cheydinhal manor, his lover splayed out across his chest. She combed through his loose hair with her fingers as he listened to the rain hammer against the glass of the windows above them, its steady thrum broken only by the distant crash of thunder. He ran his fingers down her bare spine in long, gentle strokes, and by her silence, he knew she was deep in thought.

“Will you at least talk to her? Can you just let her know to be careful?” The Bosmer finally spoke, her voice a quiet plea. “I don’t trust his intentions.”

“It’s just a necklace, darling. How do you know it means anything at all?”

“No, it’s not just the necklace. She looked so uncomfortable when she was talking about it. I think maybe he made a pass at her or something.” She raised her head from Vicente’s chest and met his skeptical gaze with knitted brows. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. Even you said he’s always asking about her. Maybe his interests are more personal than professional.”

“Nim is our newest sister," he replied with a dismissive shake of his head. “He wants to know that she’s settling in well.”

“Then why is he promoting her so quickly? That Imperial prison contract should have gone to one of the others with a higher rank. No wonder M’raaj-Dar is so upset. Nim’s been with us for what, two or three months? Our Speaker is testing her, isn’t he?”

Vicente really couldn’t find a good reason for the Lucien's actions himself, but Speaker's didn’t operate within the same realm of logic as most individuals in the first place. He agreed, however, that it was odd behavior. Such rapid advancement was unusual, even for one as talented as Nim.

“And what if he is?” he said at last. “Given the recent tragedies surrounding our fallen brethren, is it really so terrible to make sure we are inducting competent members?”

“No, I understand being cautious, but why recruit her in the first place if we’re really that paranoid? She’s just nearly a child.”

“She murdered a countess, my dear,” Vicente retorted with a soft chuckle. “Let’s not forget that we’re all children of Sithis.”

Lorise glared at him with a crooked scowl. He continued.

“Besides, she’s perfectly capable of completing the work she is assigned, and she’s very particular about her methods of execution. Lucien is well within his means to be a little curious.”

“I know she’s capable. I’m not doubting her abilities, but his investment is worthy of suspicion. She’s already an Eliminator, and now he’s giving her special gifts? To me, it seems like he’s hunting for a new--”

“A new what? A new Silencer?” Vicente interjected. It had been coming up on half a year since his previous Silencer’s demise, and Lucien was certainly taking his time to find a new one. As he should. For the sake of everyone involved, Vicente hoped Lucien was a little more meticulous about selecting his new Silencer than he was with Aventina. That girl was as reckless as she was bloodthirsty. It was only a matter of time before her impulsive, rash ways caught up with her. “Maybe Lucien has need of such discreet methods. It would be a good change of pace for him."

“It’s odd timing, don’t you think? I worry. I don’t think Nim is entirely comfortable with her position. She needs time to adjust. She needs space to breathe.”

“Maybe having someone fresh and inexperienced is just the thing he is looking for.”

Lorise curled her lip in distaste. “That seems terribly wrong. She’s not a piece of clay to be sculpted.” The Bosmer breathed in deeply before rolling off Vicente and onto the mattress, pulling the wool blankets over their bare bodies. “Maybe my mind is running a little wild then. Let’s stop talking about it. I’m getting goosebumps just thinking about what our Speaker might really want.”

The rattling of the windows and shrill whistling of the storm winds filled the brief silence between them. Lorise stared up at the wooden rafters, but after a few minutes of quiet past, she looked back to Vicente, eyes expectant. “So, will you speak with her?”

Vicente sighed loudly and he brushed a stray strand of black hair over her pointed ear. “Lorise, my darling. I really don’t think it’s cause for concern.”

He had known Lucien for several decades now, and Nimileth, the lithe, disheveled thing she was, was far from the Speaker's preference. No, Lucien had always preferred full-bodied women who were fiery and expressive, who complemented his love for violence and bloodshed with equal zeal.

_The poor unsuspecting creatures,_ Vicente thought to himself. Lucien could never love them as much as he loved the fantasies in his head. The Speaker required adoration to sate his narcissism, and Vicente understood, couldn't fault him for still being human at heart, however deep down that was. Lucien lusted. He craved, but at the end of the day, he was Lucien, and he never loved, not truly. Not like he loved his work. Once his desires were quenched, he left his lovers in the same state of grief, brokenhearted and pining for something that never belonged to them. But that was just the Speaker’s nature, cruel and sordid in every affair.

Vicente thought briefly of Antoinetta. Somehow, the poor girl remained very much enamored Lucien despite all he had done to illustrate the one-sided structure of their relationship. He still came by every now and then, offering her little crumbs of affection to keep her interested and available when he had a base need to satisfy. And for Antoinetta, it seemed those little crumbs were just enough to convince her to hold out a little bit longer.

But Nim was safe from all that, he was sure of it. She was much too apathetic, far too stoic to ever pique Lucien’s carnal interests. Vicente still wondered what Nim was doing here at all. He suspected she decided to stay with the Dark Brotherhood out of sheer boredom and though she loved to train and hone her skills in combat, it was quite clear she had no interest in murder, in blood or gruesome assassination. Lucien would never stand for a lover who lacked his passions. Nim was too reticent, too restrained. It would simply never work.

Vicente cleared his throat. “I also think it would mean more coming from you, Lorise,” he said. “If you’re so insistent, why don’t you talk to her? Lucien’s made advances on you before.”

“Yes, but she trusts you. I think she's still a little scared of me.”

Vicente laughed openly at the thought. Nim was a curious thing. He never would have believed that one could be more comfortable with an undead assassin than with a beautiful woman, though he supposed she had a point. The latter was scores more deadly.

* * *

Nim kneeled at the Altar of Arkay, her forehead pressed against the cool stone of the central shrine as she whispered her prayers through stifled whimpers. Behind her lay a trail of muddied footprints and puddles that had dripped off her soaked clothing. The primates were asleep in the chapel hall. No worshipers joined her in her pews. In the empty room of white tile and vaulted ceilings, Nim and the God of Life and Death spoke in isolation while the brewing storm threw itself against the great wooden doors.

_Blessed Arkay, I come to you as a hypocrite. _

_Once, I prided myself in fighting those who prey upon the immortal soul, practitioners of the Black Arts who bind life and imprison it after the body has passed on. Yet now I walk Nirn beating Death’s drum without warrant. I am a shepard no longer. I am a reaper._

Despite the emptiness of the chapel, Nim was grateful for the heavy patters of rain against the stained glass, the tempest that muffled her hushed cries. It had become a habit, these witching-hour visits. She had come to know Arkay well during her work with the Mages Guild. She had fought as a pious defender to preserve his teachings in her battle against Necromancy, but now? How could she justify the ways in which she bastardized his doctrine? 

_Blessed Arkay, forgive me for I have sinned. _

_Have I altered your balance of life and death? _

_Grant me your graces to find strength and meaning in this hellish cycle. _

_Arkay, how much longer? When you come to claim me, I will accept your blessing with open arms. _

* * *

The storm from yesterday had let up, if just barely. The thunderheads had passed over Cheydinhal in the night, leaving only a steady stream of warm rain in its wake that overflowed the river running through town. Vicente groaned silently to himself as he made his way through the flooded streets from Lorise’s house and back to the Sanctuary in the early morning. Though no sunlight shone through the dark grey blanket in the sky above, he pulled his cloak tightly over his head, hoping to keep himself dry in the strong downpour. After crawling into the well beside the abandoned house, he made sure to secure the hatch above him to prevent any errant trickles from flowing down. Sithis knew how they didn’t need any more mold sprouting up down there.

Shaking the stray droplets from his cloak, Vicente peered around the main hall. He spied Nim in the reading nook in the opposite corner from where he stood at the well entrance, an unexpected sight as he knew she had received a new contract recently. Schemer, the Sanctuary's pet rat, sat nestled beneath her chair, a half nibbled loaf of bread beside him. Nim was an early riser, that much he was aware of. Vicente approached reluctantly with Lorise’s concerned words echoing at the back of his mind. For once, he was not looking forward to their conversation.

“Nim, I’m surprised to see you here. I thought you would have left for Fort Sutch by now.” His eyes wandered down to the copper amulet that poked out above the neckline of her loose velvet shirt. It wasn’t nearly as unpleasant as Lorise had made it out to be. In fact, Vicente found it quite tasteful. Not nearly as gaudy as the gifts he had given to previous paramours.

“Yes, I’m surprised too.” Nim looked up from her copy of _The Lunar Lorkhan_ cheerfully as she recognized the vampire’s voice. Her smile fell as she caught his prying eyes on her neck, feeling suddenly very exposed. What was he staring at there? Was he...hungry? She lifted the collar of her over-sized shirt up to her chin and pulled it down in the back so that the neckline rested on her chest without drooping. “Why are you looking at me like that? Did I do something?”

“No, I just wanted to talk,” the Breton replied quickly with a shake of his head and directed his focus to her eyes. Her sudden stiffness did not go undetected. He hadn’t meant to stare and found her reaction amusing if not wholly unnecessary. Though Nim was normally quite chummy and comfortable in his presence, it was obvious that she had never fully let her guard down in the Sanctuary. And Vicente couldn’t blame her. Not with the rumors floating around these days.

Nim nodded her head toward the free seat across from her. On the low table before her lay a collection of curious titles and leaves of parchment inked with messily scrawled notes. _Sithis_, _Necromancers Moon, Gods and Worship_, _The Black Arts on Trial._ Dense material_, _he thought, not texts that one would pick up on a whim_._

“A bit of light reading before you head out?” He couldn’t imagine what she was searching for with such an assortment. Where did she get these books anyway and was she always carrying them around? It couldn’t be good for one’s back.

“Got distracted and lost track of time.” Nim dogeared her page and shut the book, laying it atop the small pile on the table. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about necromancy, would you?”

“Necromancy?” Vicente repeated, cocking his head to the side. For all the displeasure she expressed regarding murder and assassination, he was mildly shocked to hear such a question leave her lips. Vicente moved forward to take the seat, and surprised a chuckle as he imagined Nim dressed head to toe in black robes, raising the corpse of her latest contract. It really wasn't that hard to believe.

“I didn’t realize you had such macabre interests,” he said and squinted curiously at the small girl who was sipping from a mug of black coffee with lightly trembling hands. He suspected she hadn’t slept much the night before. She was dressed in mismatched wool socks and an oversized red velvet blouse that was obviously designed for a man twice her size. About three-quarters of her hair was weaved into two loose braid while the remaining strands floated freely about her head like wisps of a long-forgotten dust ball in the air duct. Vicente supposed he had met stranger looking mages before, but he’d never seen a necromancer that looked quite so bedraggled.

Upon spying Vicente’s peeping eyes wander over to her scattered notes, Nim folded up her loose parchment and stuck them between her pages of _Necromancer’s Moon_. “I’m not interested in practicing, just want to know how it works.”

“I’m sure that’s what they all say when they start out,” he said with an impish smirk. “Though I may be a vampire, that does not make me an expert on all things undead. Sorry to disappoint.”

**“**Meh, there was no harm in asking. What about that creature?” Nim pointed to the lumbering skeletal guardian that creaked its way across the room. “Where does he come from? Did somebody, you know, raise him up from a crypt?”

“That’s a better question for Lucien. He brings them over from Fort Farragut.” At the mention of the Speaker’s name, Vicente felt a sudden itch in the back of his mind as though he was forgetting something. What was he supposed to say to Nim, again? Something about Lucien. Something about a necklace. Something he really didn’t want to talk about. He looked over to the Bosmer. The neckline of her shirt was slowly slipping down again. “New amulet?”

Nim gave a half-hearted, skeptical laugh and raised a brow.

“You wanted to talk to me about my jewelry?” She waited for the vampire’s sarcastic retort and blinked in surprise when it failed to come. When Vicente didn’t answer her immediately, she realized he had asked a genuine question.

_So word has gotten around that fast, huh. Why is everyone in this Sanctuary so Gods damned nosy? _

She touched the center of the talisman as she met the vampire’s eye, running the tips of her fingers back and forth along the central inset. “It’s enchanted to fortify the wearers strength and willpower. Charming, isn’t it?”

“Indeed. That’s a powerful augmentation given your interests, don’t you think?”

“Sure.” She shrugged one shoulder forward with practiced indifference.

“Lucien gave it to you?” 

“Don’t you already know the answer?” Her reply fell flat and disinterested as she crossed her arms.

“He doesn’t give out personal bonuses very often. Our Speaker thinks very highly of you.”

“Sure.”

“And what do you think of him?”

“What a dull question,” she scoffed with disdain. “Vicente, my dear friend, let us trim the fat already. What is the point of this conversation? Did Lorise put you up to it?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “How did you know?”

“Because she was acting… oddly concerned. I don’t know. She looked unnerved when I mentioned the amulet had come from Lucien. I suspected maybe there was some history I didn’t know about.”

Vicente paused and scanned the perimeter of the room to ensure that no one was poking their nose into their conversation. Only Schemer squeaked back at him from whatever dreamscape rats occupied. With the coast clear, he rested his gaze on Nim’s annoyed pout. He didn’t want to believe that Lucien had fallen into another bout of infatuation, not with Nim, not so soon after what happened with Antoinetta and Lorise. Not after what happened with his last Silencer.

The Bosmer arched her brows as she waited for his reply, blasé and unamused. Vicente felt himself relax.

It was all a big hullabaloo, wasn’t it? Rumors spun by busybodies who lived underground with too much time on their hands. Unlike Antoinetta and Lucien’s previous silencer, Nim had never expressed even the slightest interest in what the Speaker thought of her, and Vicente didn’t pin her for the type to fall for his husky susurration and sultry glances. Like he had told, Lorise, it wasn’t anything to be worried about, and he really didn’t want to be having this conversation when he was only ever an outsider looking in on the Speaker’s affairs. But she had asked him to do this favor for her, and who was he to deny a request that came from such sweet lips?

“Lorise thought that--”

“Look,” Nim interrupted, holding up a hand. “If this is something that happened between Lorise and Lucien, I don’t want to hear it from you, Vicente. If it’s really that concerning, maybe she should tell me.”

And with that, Vicente breathed a sigh of relief. “You’re right. That’s just what I told her. Whatever is going on--“

“Nothing is going on.”

“Well it’s none of my business anyway.”

“Well,” Nim replied, sinking backwards in her chair with mild surprise in her eyes. She hadn’t expected him to let up so easily. “I’m glad we’re on the same page then.”

Vicente eyed her carefully, and she stiffened slightly beneath his scrutiny.

“You’ll tell me if you have ever feel cause for concern, won’t you?”

“Why would I be concerned? Don’t be cryptic with me, please. If there is something on your mind, then say it.”

“In that case, maybe there is something I want to talk to you about.”

“Oh?” Nim stiffened again, drawing a chuckle from the vampire across from her.

“I’ve been observing how you interact with our brothers and sisters and can see you're still quite tense.”

“Sometimes more than others. It takes a while for me to let loose.”

“That’s plenty fair.” Vicente, like everyone else, took note of how little time Nim spent in the Sanctuary when she wasn’t training with him or cooking meals with Antoinetta and Lorise. He had heard a few stray whispers regarding her frequently extensive absences and reserved demeanor, most often from M’raaj Dar. Vicente understood. It was easy to mistake her quiet presence for aloofness, but he had spent enough time with Nim to know she was quite the opposite, and surely Antoinetta and Lorise would vouch for her too.

Though he found her to be a fascinating and welcomed addition to the family, her apparent lack of interest in the very essence of what united the Dark Brotherhood left him unsettled. Just what drove an twenty-year-old mage into the company of assassins and what possessed her to stay when she was obviously more interested in the arcane than homicide.

“Nim, I feel like you’re terribly bored here.”

“That’s not true,” she said with a swift shake of her head. “I’m doing things here I would never have dreamed of in my most skooma-addled slumber. Why just the other day, Lorise showed me four ways to kill a man using only a length of cable and a wooden dowel.”

“You look completely uninterested in most conversation going on around you.”

“That’s just my face.”

“No,” he insisted. “I think you just can’t feign enthusiasm for something that disgusts you.”

“I most certainly can. You just haven’t seen me. My cheek muscles get sore after a while of smiling in artifice. Sometimes it’s just wasted energy.”

Vicente suppressed his smile. “But it’s true, you’re not interested in serving Sithis. You don’t hunger to spill blood like our brothers and sisters. You still haven’t fully accepted your position in our family, have you? You find the whole thing morbid and perverse.”

Nim shrugged and took a loud sip of coffee. “I mean, it is a little stilted. A rock could tell you that.”

“So why are you here? Truly, and I don’t care what you say. I won’t be mad. Tell me what you want from your time here so that I can help you achieve it.”

Nim waved her hands flippantly through the air.

“Oh, I’m not even sure I can answer that question honestly with myself. I killed one bloody woman and suddenly I- suddenly everyone thinks I am a cold-hearted murder. and I don’t know, maybe I am?” Nim stared pensively into her mug and scratched behind her ear. “But that’s not all I am, you know? It’s not really what I want to picture myself as. I killed one bloody woman and suddenly I don’t seem to recognize myself anymore. I don’t feel bad about it, but I don’t feel good. I feel nothing.

"I look around and everyone seems to have found something that they wanted from being here. Antoinetta found a home, a family. Tienaava and Ocheeva were born into. They’re fulfilling their destiny as Shadowscales. Lorise found yet another outlet to sate her bloodlust and love for battle among people who feel the same way. And you, Vicente, real companionship and acceptance. Me? I’m adrift. I’m running myself down a hole because I don’t know what more I need. Am I here because I want a new experience or because I want to curse myself? And sometimes I think I just want to feel something again.”

Nim pulled her legs up onto the chair and tucked her knees under her chin. She offered Vicente a dispirited shrug. He met her forlorn gaze with pensive stillness, processing her unexpected candor. When at last he spoke, his voice was a silvery, gentle song.

“You know, I was alone for the better part of a century before the Dark Brotherhood found me. I had my mortality stripped away from me in a foreign land with nothing to my name but my tattered clothing and the insatiable need for blood. But it was among this family that I flourished, that I came to find value in my own existence, and true, unconditional love. It was not my design. It was something other worldly. I was once a pariah damned to the shadows, and now I have reason to be again. Some more fortunate people have the privilege of designing their own purposes and fulfilling them without need for drastic revision. You and I are not one of those people, Nimileth. You can let this be your anchor or you can keep floating until the ocean swallows you.”

Nim fell into silence as she worked down a hard lump in her throat. She buried her face behind her knees and drummed her fingers on the arm that wrapped around her legs.

“My purpose, huh,” she said in a hushed murmur. Vicente nodded, though he knew she could not see him.

It seemed an awful fate, but she had done awful things. She had made herself to be a harbinger of death. And so here she came to reap what she had sown.


	10. The Busy Life of Alchemists

**Chapter 10: The Busy Life of Alchemists**

Nim stood anxiously among her fellow assassins. She double checked her materials, the several baskets of dried plants and fungi laid out on the large table before her. Vicente had approached her with an unusual request earlier that morning. As an effort to get her to share her true passions with the family, the Breton Executioner arranged for Nim to deliver an alchemical lesson in the main hall on the basics of poisons. Nim agreed. Alchemy was one thing she could talk comfortable about for days, and at least poisons were a relevant subject to individuals in their particular line of business.

She’d never given a lesson to anyone before. Not to any mages and certainly not to an assassin. What if she was a terrible instructor and no one learned anything? What if they all found her terribly boring? She couldn’t bear the thought of giving a dry lecture and watching as the interest evaporated out of their brains like water in the Alik'r desert.

_Oh Judicious Julianos, is that how they feel when they talk to me about their contracts? I ought to be more sensitive._ Her stomach lurched as she saw M’raaj-Dar saunter into the common room with a scathing glare. Vicente trailed behind him, and Nim wondered what he had promised the Khajiit to convince him to attend.

“Alright everyone,” she began with a clap of her hands as she turned to address the room. Around the table sat M’raaj-Dar, Lorise, Telandril, Ocheeva, and Teinaava. Vicente supported himself against the back wall and offered her a reassuring nod as she proceeded. “Thank you all for coming. I don’t know if Vicente forced you to show, up but here we are anyway. Welcome to fundamentals of poisons taught by yours truly. How many of you have dabbled in alchemy before?”

Nim paused to allow for her fellow assassins to respond. Only Vicente and M’raaj-Dar raised their hands.

“Now how many of you have used poisons during your contracts?”

This question called forth a bouquet of raised hands and enthusiastic babbling from all her pupils. 

“Ocheeva,” Nim called to the Executioner. “Tell us about what you used.”

“A poison of Burden. My mark was a pirate, and I was to kill him out at sea. I slipped the poison into his ale and pushed him into the ocean somewhere between Vvardenfell and Solstheim. He sunk like an anchor. Now those were the days.” She finished with a satisfied sigh and drummed her fingers along the wooden tabletop in blissful nostalgia.

Telaendril, who sat beside the argonian, eagerly waved her hand to volunteer her story next. “I was to kill a sorcerer, a member of the Mages Guild I believe. He was on some sort of expedition or survey in the West Weald. When I visited his campsite, I tipped my arrows with a silence poison to keep him from trying any of that funny business in retaliation.”

“A wise call,” Nim replied with a nod as she pushed down a sudden swell of alarm. _Of course, mages would not be exempt from ritualistic murder_. She had met her fair share of unsavory sorts in her short time with the Guild, but what kind of person would willingly perform the sacrament? “M’raaj-Dar, you’re quite the alchemist yourself, I hear. What are some of your favorite poisons to use?”

“Right now, I’d favor any poison that would keep you silenced,“ he sneered.

Telandril stifled a snicker. “I’m sorry, Sister,” she apologized, clearing her throat while attempting to restrain the edges of her mouth as they curled upward into another grin.

“S'alright," she continued on, brushing the insult to the side. "We'll get to the silence effect and how to distill it soon enough. Now clearly poisons are useful accessories in an assassin’s toolkit. For our lesson today, Vicente has asked that I demonstrate four different effects that I feel would benefit you the most while completing your assignments. These will be damage health, paralyze, silence, and lastly restore health in case you find yourself in a tight spot."

At that, M’raaj-Dar stood up, the scrape of his chair echoing unapologetically. He turned with a curse hot on his press and left the room. Vicente leaned away from the wall with knitted brows as he watched the Khajiit slip through the doors of the living quarters.

Nim sighed as she traced M’raaj-Dar’s exit with a dull ache of disappointment. If he didn’t care for her as an assassin, she was hoping she could convince him that she was at least a competent alchemist. He sold potions. She brewed them. Maybe they could help each other out, but alas it seemed yet another pipe dream.

“He probably knew everything I was going to say anyway," Nim shrugged, "so let’s start with something simple.”

From the basket she withdrew a flower with soft purple petals and a vibrant yellow center. She held it up for all to see.

“The deadly nightshade, _Atropa belladonna, _is a member of the Solanaceae family. Tomato, eggplant, potato, tobacco - all solanaceous species that are commonly cultivated for day to day consumption. However, certain members of the nightshade family, such as this one, contain high concentrations of potent alkaloids that are extremely toxic to most man, mer, and beast. Upon ingestion, deleterious symptoms may range from gastrointestinal discomfort to psychoactive hallucinations and even death.

“Uh, Nim,” Teinaava interrupted, his face scrunched in confusion. “What is an alkaloid?”

“An excellent question, Teinaava,” Nim replied with an eager glint in her eye. “Alkaloids are organic compounds that alchemists have distilled for their profound physiological effects in potions and poisons. In plants, the alkaloid takes the form of a hormone that regulates development. They are often concentrated in the leaves to serve as a defenses against herbivory. Now, as mentioned, alchemists have found a way to purify these compounds using a series of acid-base extractions. In the deadly nightshade, we will target the compound known as tropane which acts to inhibit--“

From the back, Vicente raised his hand and cleared his throat. “Nimileth, dear, this is supposed to be an introduction. Let’s dial it back, please. I think you’re losing some people.”

”Ah,” Nim replied with wide eyes as she gazed at her audience of furrowed brows and nervous grins. They all stared up at her, blinking curiously and waiting in silence. “Okay let me try that again. Deadly nightshade, when distilled to its essence, greatly increases one’s risk of seizure and coma by weakening the body muscles, constricting airways of the lungs, and causing heart arrythmias. Outside of its lethal uses, it can deliver a powerful burdening effect. When combined with Dragon’s tongue, wormwood leaves, and sacred lotus seeds it produces a potent poison that can be classified under the umbrella effect of _damage health._

"All of these are relatively common in alchemical shops and across the Cyrodiilic wilderness. In front of each of you is one of these four ingredients. I have all the alchemical apparatuses we will need to brew a potent poison up here with me and would like each of you to take turns using them as we move through our exercises. Now who wants to begin with the mortar and pestle?”

* * *

Once she could actually move around the room to help the others with the hands-on portion of the demonstrations, Nim fell into natural comfort with her instruction. It felt good to teach by example rather than stand before them blabbering uncontrollably like a cat on skooma. Aside from a few spills and some charred leaves, everyone was able to collectively produce four viable potions that bore the intended effect, though Nim would wager that their potency was far weaker than anything she would comfortably use in the field.

If the group was bored or dissatisfied at any point during her lesson, they did well to hide it. In fact, Nim thought they actually enjoyed the change of pace from their excited comments and squeals as they watched the reactions unfold before them. Vicente offered praise as he helped her clean up, and Nim did her best to keep it from getting to her head.

“Nimileth,” Ocheeva’s voice called out to her from the Executioners’ private quarters. Nim looked up from the mess of crushed lotus seed that she was sweeping into her palm to see the Argonian beckoning her forward. After dusting the fine grains into a nearby waste bin, she approached.

“Yes, Ocheeva? What’s on your mind?”

“Come in,” she said, and shut the door behind her as Nim took a seat at the small table in the center of the room. “The lesson was just wonderful, by the way. I had no idea one could be so knowledgeable and enthusiastic about plants and fungi. It was lovely to see such a passionate side of you for once.”

Nim knew the comment wasn’t meant in ill-will, but the underlying implication rang clealy. Had she really been so phlegmatic in her time here?

“Anyway, we’ve been thinking--“

“We?”

“Vicente and I. Our Speaker too.”

“Oh,” Nim mused, her suspicions suddenly rising.

“I know you’re a busy woman and you’ve every right to maintain your livelihood out on the surface world,” Ocheeva continued, pointing a clawed finger up towards the ceiling, “but we were thinking it would be good for all of us to spend some quality time together. Really get to know the Nimileth beyond the discreet executions and stoic humility.”

“Um, quality time?”

“Yes, a gathering. Lucien has upcoming business with the Black Hand in our part of Tamriel. They’re travelling to visit him here in the Heartlands, and he has invited several other Speakers to stay the night in Cheydinhal before they part ways. We thought this would be a wonderful opportunity to introduce you to some more of the family.”

Nim felt her body go rigid, icy tendrils travelling up her legs and down to her fingertips. “Like, a party?” _Do assassins even have parties?_

Ocheeva nodded enthusiastically, her mouth pulled into a tight grin. “Precisely!” she cheered. “A little dinner party to celebrate Sithis bringing you to us.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait a minute,” Nim interrupted, shaking her hands wildly in front of her. Her lips were stretched into a panicked smile, all teeth on display. “This is just _a _party, right? This isn’t _my _party. Right?”

Ocheeva continued to nod joyfully, ignoring the desperation in the Bosmer’s voice. “It is tradition in this Sanctuary to host a celebration in honor of each members first birthday spent with our family. It marks the beginning of a new life, a rebirth if you will.”

“Ocheeva, my birthday was in Second Seed!" she protested. "That’s nearly four months ago.”

“Yes, Sister but if we wait until next year then it’s possible you might not be with us.”

“Well, why in Oblivion not?”

“High turn-over rate in our line of business.”

“That’s a little morbid,” Nim murmured with a frown. “And I’m a little offended you think I have such a short shelf life.”

“There’s no time to be offended, dear Sister. In a few days time, we’ll all gather and celebrate the joyous occasion of your initiation into our family.”

“A few days! But I- I have a contract to fulfill.” And she never thought she would be more eager to fulfill a contract than she was in that moment. She loved her parties as much as the next degenerate, but a party among assassins, and unfamiliar, high ranking assassins at that, was about as appealing as a handshake with a mudcrab.

“Roderick is not going anywhere, and you know it, Nim. He’s bedridden. It’s just one night and then you will be free to return to your usual routine." Ocheeva offered her a sympathetic smile, but when Nim only began to look more and more distressed, her smile faded to an unamused frown. "Really, there’s no way around it. The other Speakers are already on their way from their own sanctuaries. Lucien mentioned we would be hosting a party, so it must be done now.”

“Was this Lucien’s idea?”

“He was a strong proponent.”

“Ocheeva, I appreciate the sentiment, but I think throwing a party for someone who doesn’t want one kind of defeats the whole purpose. Why can’t it just be in celebration of dinner?”

“If you so desire, we need not throw a party in your honor--”

“I do so desire,” Nim blurted with vehemence. “I do so desire not to be forced to be a spectacle at any party.”

“-after this one,” the argonian finished with a sly tilt of her head.

Nim, sunk back in her chair with a sullen pout. “What if I don’t show up?”

“Well, that would be too bad, Sister. I’m afraid our Speaker would have to find a fitting punishment for such defiance,” she hinted with a spirited pitch. “We want you to be there, Nim. We want you to feel loved and welcomed here. Do it for the sake of our family, if not for your own pleasure.”

“I suppose I have no choice then.”

“We all have a choice. Yours should be what dress to wear and what kind of roast you want served.”

The genuine mirth the Argonian’s tone drew a soft sigh from Nim. _What a strange lot of murderous lunatics! _She conceded with a small, defeated sigh.

“If you insist, I suppose I have no choice, but I’m going to make the dessert and there better be good wine. A lot of good wine, okay?” And by Sanguine and his cirrhotic liver, she hoped it was Tamika's, otherwise she was unsure how she would manage to get through the night.

* * *

It was a muggy summer day in the Heartlands, but after years in the oppressive humidity of the Blackwoods, Nim could handle most anything else without great discomfort. At least up in the higher elevation at which Cheydinhal sat, a sporadic breeze rolled through the hanging willow branches and broke up the moist stagnancy in the air.

After stopping by the Chapel of Arkay to pay alms and offer prayer, Nim wandered down to the Cheydinhal Mages Guild with a carefully crafted letter to Carahil. What she desired more than anything in that moment was to return home to Anvil and check whether Traven sent word for her next visit to the University, but she knew she could never make it to the Gold Coast and back to Cheydinhal within Ocheeva’s given timeframe. With each passing day the necromancer force grew stronger, and here she was playing the role of esteemed socialite.

_Yuck._

She thought briefly of making a day trip down to the Imperial City to check in herself, but it would only squander time and effort if she was to return empty handed. But maybe she would see Raminus again while in town. It wouldn’t be such a waste in that case.

The very least she could do, she decided, was write Carahil and inform the Altmer of her whereabouts and when she planned to return. If a letter arrived for her before then, she’d leave the Cheydinhal Mages Guild as a forwarding address. Nim decided she would spin the visit to the eastern most guild hall as a trip to meet with Deetsan. The Argonian Magician was an advanced trainer in alteration, and Nim had several reams of questions compiled that would help her finally clarify some of the fundamental differences between alteration and illusion magics. Sometimes Nim found the ease with which she could concoct lies and enact distorted half-truths a little frightening, but more than anything it was one hell of a convenient skill to own.

Entering the local Guild Hall, Nim found the bottom floor empty. She wiped a bead of perspiration off her temple as she listened to the voices chattering on the floor above. She heard Deetsan and Trayvond in incoherent conversation with a familiar voice. Nim ascended the stairs slowly and peeked around the corner to find the two mages seated at a table with a third robed figure, a charcoal-haired man with his back turned to her. Her stomach knotted as she heard him speak, this time with resounding clarity.

_Raminus?_ It couldn’t be.

Nim raced downstairs to the dining room and rummaged desperately through the cabinets in search of polished silver. When was the last time she bathed? Why didn’t she brush her hair this morning? Oh, hot rat stew, why on Nirn did she decide not to change out of her stained blouse following alchemy lessons? Finding her reflection in the least marred goblet available, Nim ran her fingers through her frizzed mop of hair, attempting to smooth down the fly aways that waved back at her in the silver mirror. She proceeded down to Eilonwy’s alchemy desk, which stood unattended, and retrieved a sprig of lavender from the ingredient storage chest. Nim crushed it between her fingers and rubbed it furiously over her arms and down her neck.

“Nimileth?”

Nim looked up to the landing above as she slowed her rate of scrubbing to gentle little circles on her wrist. Raminus watched, puzzled by the crumbs of crushed lavender petals that fell unceremoniously to the Bosmer’s feet. 

“Hello, Raminus,” she replied with a meek grin, ignoring the lavender tumbling through her fingers. “What brings you this way?

“I could ask the same.”

“I think I asked first.”

Raminus descended the stairs slowly, his eyes fixed on NIm as she swept the crushed remnants of the flower under the carpet with her feet. “I was just speaking with Deetsan. We’ve made progress in tracking Falcar, and I promised to keep her updated with any findings.”

Nim’s pointed ears perked at the news. “Well that’s an excellent development.” Though she itched to know more, she knew this was not the time nor the place to pry for details. “It’s very courteous of you to travel all this way to tell her in person.”

“Yes, well, I’d want the same done if I were in her position. I can’t imagine sleep finds her easy most nights knowing what he’s done to other associates under the same roof.”

The two mages shared a prolonged silence as they met each other in front of the main door. Nim’s gaze wandered, eventually resting on his lips. She waited for him to speak.

“I assume you’ve received word from Traven.” A mere foot of space stood between them now as she inched her way closer absentmindedly, Raminus spoke softly to account for the short distance. His eyes flickered across her bronze features, the glisten of summer heat in her skin, the subtle curl of her lashes fluttering with each blink.

Nim shook her head.

“I haven’t checked my mail recently.”

“Are you… headed to the city anytime soon?” Her absence was sorely noted. The Lustratorium gardens remained unsung in the early mornings without her soft melodies to fill them. Without her to engage Bothiel in their bouts of buoyant giggling, the only noise escaping the Orrery was that of grinding gears and hollow clanks.

Nim parted her lips to reply and was abruptly interrupted by the man in front of her.

“Perhaps we could take a carriage there together?" he suggested. "If, um, you’re headed that way of course.”

Her heart leapt at the eagerness in his voice.

“I- yes,” she blurted out, the words leaving her before she had even thought the implication through. Despite Ocheeva’s plans lingering in the back of her thoughts, she found herself at ease. With Raminus staring down at her, the party was the last thing on her mind.

_Oh, just a day trip won’t be so bad. I’ve been meaning to do it anyway. _

“Just passing through though. Unfortunately, I can’t stay for long.”

“Oh, of course.” Raminus nodded in understanding. She was a busy woman, everyone knew, and with a new task from Traven she’d have even more piled onto her plate.

He smiled and opened the door for her, welcome and familiar comfort washing over her as she passed through and into the golden light of day. She looked back at him with a rosy beam and already began to mourn her departure.

Raminus cleared his throat as he followed her out onto the road. “Bothiel will be so glad to see you.”

“Yeah," she said, working hard to keep her smile from growing any wider. "I’m sure happy to see her too.”


	11. Mistakes and Misinterpretations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I like to imagine Raminus as the painfully oblivious type.

**Chapter 11: Mistakes and Misinterpretations **

The idle chatter of the lunch hour patrons was a welcome dullness against Nim’s ears. She sat in the King and Queen Tavern, drumming her fingers against the pewter tankard, as she thought to her upcoming task from Traven.

Skingrad. Traven had directed her to Skingrad, and Count Janus Hassildor had asked for her personally to attend the promised meeting. She recalled her initial meeting with the vampire with a sour taste on her tongue and doubted the upcoming reunion would be any sweeter. Fortunately, she could be professional when she wanted to, and since Traven had stressed the importance of preserving the relationship with the Count, she’d bite her tongue when necessary like the good little lap dog she was. She only wished the Council was as adamant about preserving the lives of her fellow guild mates as it was the relationships with self-absorbed nobility.

Raminus had promised to meet her for a drink before she left the city again. Nim’s eyes wandered to the door of the pub as she sipped her ale in anticipation. His request had left her with a gut full of fuzzy caterpillars that threatened to inch their way up her throat and bloom into the most horrendous moth, the kind with eyespots and fuzzy antennae. Oh, but she mustn’t let herself get so excited. It was nothing but a cordial visit between two colleagues. Besides, she couldn’t stay in the city much longer if she wanted to catch the last night coach back to Cheydinhal.

“Hey there.” A silvery voice drew her attention away from the bar. Raminus called out to her with a wave and serene grin widening on his lips, his tall figure briefly silhouetted by the bright sun shining through the open door.

“Master Wizard,” she chirped and met him with a simper, unable to hold it back in his presence.

“Your meeting with Traven went well?” 

"Better than the last." She nodded and gestured toward the bar. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Whatever you’re having will be fine.”

With their tankards of ale in tow, they took their seats at a small table beside a cracked window and fell into silence. Silence and more simpering, a lot of bashful eye-contact.

“I- um. I have something for you before you go," Raminus said, passing his tankard between his palms.

“Oh? What is it? Can I see?”

"Yes of course," he chuckled, the sound brittle. "I'll give it to you before you go."

"But can I see it now?" she asked excitedly. Surprises were never quite as pleasurable as people made them out to be, she found.

“Well, alright," Raminus relented, finding himself unable to resist her request. "I was waiting for the next time you came to visit, but I guess here you are. I realize I never got you anything for being promoted to Warlock, or for celebrating your apprenticeship, or for your new house in Anvil, or your birthday even.”

"You didn't have to get me anything," she said quitely and ignored the heat in her cheeks. "I didn't even know I was promoted anyway."

“Traven didn’t tell you? I'm surprised that the Arch-mage didn't inform you following your return from Nenyond Twyl."

“Um, it’s possible that I wasn’t listening to what Traven said after a while.” She had the tendency to zone out when the person speaking to her was too infuriating. It was a coping mechanism really. The alternative was too explode and then be called back in by superiors to be reprimanded for disturbing the peace. At least that was what Armand Christophe had done whenever she insulted the Gray Fox.

“Nim, he is the Arch-mage.” Raminus laughed nervously. "Surely, you meant that in jest."

“I seem to have difficulties dealing with authority figures," she said, and then waved her hand dismissively in the air. “But that's neither here nor there. You were saying something about a gift?”

“Yes, you’re a Warlock now. Pretty soon, I imagine you’ll be taking my place.”

“Oh, they just give me these fancy titles so that I’ll keep doing their dirty work. This place wouldn’t run without you, Raminus.”

“Untrue. You’ve earned every rank I’ve bestowed upon you, but let’s not argue about it. It’s nothing much, just what I could afford on a wizard’s salary.” Raminus drew forth a small, brown wooden box from the pocket of his robe “I had it enchanted. I thought it was something practical you could use in your daily studies. I hope that you find it to your liking.”

As Raminus removed the lid, Nim peered inside with a gasp. A simple, silver band with an emerald inset twinkled back at her. Raminus watched her reaction with bated breath, waiting for a smile that did not come. Her eyes, wide with awe, never parted from the glittering gem.

“It will fortify your illusion. I thought about what we er- what I had said to you at the Dark Fissure and felt that maybe it was a little impolite of me. I know you cherish your practice.”

Nim looked up to meet his gaze with a wilted expression, eyes dipping downward at the corners as though troubled. Raminus' face suffused with color and mild warmth as he broke her stare and laid the box on the table directly in front of her.

“It’s also augmented to fortify your alteration, since you claim to be so bad at it.” The chuckle he hoped would break the tension stuck in his throat, eliciting a dry croak.

Nim picked up the box, her brows sunken and sulky.

“What’s wrong?” Raminus asked. Panic burned across his eyes as he scanned her perturbed expression. Had he offended her? She looked like she was about to cry. “Emerald is your birthstone, isn’t it?”

Nim nodded and forced herself to dislodge the voice hardening in her throat. “Raminus, I don’t know what to say. You’re so sweet on me. I don’t know how I could ever thank you.” A small grin crept onto her mouth, and she bit the top of her lower lip to suppress it from consuming her entire face.

“It’s a reward well deserved," he said drawing out a long breath, relief washing through him No thanks is needed.”

“But it’s so lovely,” and by the twinge in her voice, she seemed to say that such a quality should preclude her from ever owning it.

“Yes,” he assured her, “and it suits you.” 

Nim slipped the ring on the middle finger of her left hand and spread her palm before the light. The emerald reflected the beam of sun spilling in from the latticed window behind her, and her smile deepened.

“Is it true then?” Nim asked, voice nearly a whisper and her eyes still fixated on the ring.

“Is what true?”

“Raminus…” she drawled and tilted her head to the side, her lips now curled fully at the edges. Finally, that concerning look had left her, and her eyes met his, tender and yearning.

“Yes?”

“You fancy me.” 

A pause. “I beg your pardon.” An electric jolt across his sternum as her words echoed in his skull. _You fancy me, you fancy me, you fancy me._

“Ramnius, just tell me,” she pleaded softly with the lightest touch of urgency in her voice. “Don’t play coy.”

“Nimileth, I-“ His lungs constricted within his chest. All air left his body, and he found himself gasping at the first words that came to mind. “Wh-what?”

“The gifts, your kind words, that nervous twinkle in your eye whenever we speak.” Nim worried the corner of her mouth and squinted at the Master Wizard, attempting to gauge his reaction. Her heart fell a foot within her body as he stared wide-eyed and petrified back at her. “Oh my, you look startled.”

Startled wasn't the half of it. Raminus felt like a pile of scrib jelly.

“Oh my,” he repeated, shocked and growing increasingly sweaty beneath his thick robes. He never imagined he’d find himself in this situation. Well, maybe once or twice but those were moments from his dreamscape, and he had _absolutely _no control over such things. Raminus cursed himself silently as his Cyrodiliic failed him. He certainly didn’t respond so skittishly when this occurred in his dreams. “These rewards are for your accomplishments in the guild. We want our members to strive for greatness and--“

“So, I’m wasting my time is what you’re saying.” Nim was still staring at the ring on her finger, her smile cool and collected.

“I don’t understand what you mean. You’ve been an invaluable asset to the guild since you’ve joined. I thought I- I thought the Council made that clear to you.”

“Raminus Polus, I don’t for a second believe a Master Wizard could be this dense. Am I wasting my time in pursuing you? Riddle me that, please.”

“Nimileth, I am your superior.” He paused, allowing time for the words sink in. Nim’s expression hadn’t shifted in the slightest, and Raminus cleared his throat. “I once gave you your orders, and I still grant your advancements in rank. A relationship like this would... be heavily frowned upon if the Council were to find out. It would reflect very poorly on someone in my position.”

“Well, I do believe it is Hannibal Traven himself that I report to now,” she stated matter-of-factly with arched brows. “If that’s truly the reason you’re so hesitant to answer me, I could ask the Arch-mage what he thinks about such an association between fellow magisters.” Nim leaned back in her chair as she waited for Raminus to respond, but the imperial simply blushed and opened his mouth once or twice like a fish out of water. “Of course, that’s not really why you’re avoiding the question, is it Raminus?”

Frozen, Raminus felt his mouth go dry as he struggled to produce a sentence of coherent Cyrodiliic. What had he done to convince her that he was a suitable paramour? He looked down at Nim and her broken expression with a gnawing shame growing in the pit of his stomach. Her smooth earth-toned skin flushed pink in the mild heat of the warm tavern, young and free from the wear of time. Staring down at her, Raminus had never felt so old and lecherous in his life.

He thought back to all those shared moments when she had brought herself dangerously close to him, so close that he could feel her breath against his skin. That night in the Orrery, her lashes sweeping so delicately against his cheek. Nim with her palm on his hand as they sat above the Dark Fissure. The night they stood beneath the cracked cottonwood in the Arboretum, the torch bugs flittering around her, and his desire to hold her burning like a wildfire through sagebrush. Times that Raminus had, if only for a few stolen seconds, wondered what her hair would feel like under his palm, what her mouth would feel like on his skin, what her sleeping body looked like clothed in only early morning sun.

“Nim," he finally choked out, "I- I'm almost thirty, and you... well it wouldn't be right for me to--”

“Okay,” she whispered back with a defeated sigh, “I hear you.”

But had she heard him? A visceral panic swept across him as he watched the Bosmer collect her belongings. Had she really understood what he was trying to say? Had he even understood what he was trying to say in the first place? Raminus wanted to call out after her, tell her that he longed for this moment in a way he thought only existed in dreams. He was utterly captivated by her, and not just in appearance. She was a talented mage, selfless and driven, and it had been so long since anyone expressed an interest in him. But his pining left him with a rancid guilt, reminding him of how unattainable and inappropriate of a fantasy it was.

“I really don’t know how I got this so wrong,” Nim murmured and stood to her feet. She picked her sack off the floor and looked up at Raminus, shaking her head gently before turning her gaze away in embarrassment. “Forgive me for being so forward. I hope I haven’t made you too uncomfortable.”

“Nim, don't leave," Raminus called after her. "Not because of this, please." She paused, stared at him with hopeful eyes, and once again Raminus' mouth fell agape and silent. He blinked rapidly.

“I really need to go. I need to... brew some potions. Until next time, Master Wizard.”

Raminus felt himself the greatest fool to grace Nirn. Nim fled the tavern swiftly, and he realized he hadn’t even moved in his seat during the entire conversation. He wrinkled his face in sheer disgust and breathed heavily through his nostrils as his mind replayed over and over the events that had just transpired.

He didn’t want to believe it. He couldn’t. Had Nim actually felt a genuine attraction toward him? Was he not making it up all those times he thought he caught her longing stare?

Raminus cursed loudly in his seat as he slammed his fist against the table, drawing scrutinizing glares from the busy tavern-goers. _You spineless sload! __As if she already didn’t think I was old! What a fool!_ He’d never have such an opportunity again, and a piercing ache stabbed through him at the realization.

“Aye,” Ley Marillin, the Imperial publican called out from beside a very distressed Raminus. “Can I get you another?”

Raminus shook his head and sighed. “No, I’m fine thank you. I’ve hardly touched this one.”

“Listen,” Ley continued. “It’s not my place to say, but Nim’s a fiery one. It’s probably for the best you let her be. Why, you should have seen what she did to the last bloke that crossed her. Poor Velwyn hasn’t been the same since he got back from Anvil.” Raminus’s eyes followed the publican’s motions toward a pallid Imperial man, Velwyn Benirus, who sat at the far end of the bar with his lunch. “You sure I can’t get you another one, even on the house?”

“I’ll take it.” He agreed with a nod. Taking long gulps of his ale, Raminus replayed her crestfallen expression over and over until the next tankard arrived.

* * *

“Hello, busy bee.”

Nim glanced up from the floor to scan the main hall of the Sanctuary as she searched for the source of the call. Antoinetta sat in a corner, her pale face illuminated by a tray of candles as she passed a needle and thread through her leather armor. Nim met her eyes as she let the Black Door screech close behind her and proceeded toward the sitting area along the far wall.

“Hi,” she said softly and leaned forward against the back rest of the free seat. “You missed my lesson on poisons.”

“It’s my loss, really. I just got back into town. I bet I would have learned a lot.”

“Eh,” Nim shrugged. “I’ve got a long ways to work on my pedagogy before my teaching becomes useful to anyone.”

Antoinetta glanced over to the pack hanging from Nim’s shoulders and pouted. “Were you leaving us so soon?”

“Soon? I’ve stayed far longer than intended. Vicente keeps wrangling me into these extended visits. I just needed to step out and get some fresh air. I think I’ve been down here for a while.”

“Well, when you live in the Sanctuary a couple of days worth of visiting isn’t very long at all. Not really. It’s quiet when you’re not around.”

“Huh, I barely speak much to anyone here. It’s quiet when I’m around too.”

“That’s not true. Everyone was so… on edge before you came. The silence was suffocating sometimes. But people talk when you’re in the room.”

Nim frowned at the disappointment in the Breton’s tone. She never thought living in the Sanctuary could be lonely, especially not for someone as sociable as Antoinetta, yet a genuine melancholy fell across her soft features. Nim wondered if something else was the cause for her distress.

“Where do you go anyway?” Antoinetta asked as she returned to mending her armor.

“Well for one I need to take care of my marks. I can’t be in two places at once.”

The Breton rolled her eyes playfully. “That’s not what I was referring to. You’re hardly here in between contracts.”

Nim sighed and set her pack down as she took the seat across from her friend. “I have other responsibilities too. I know I’m not the only one who has a double life in the Brotherhood. People to see, things to sell, bills to pay, you know.”

“Not really,” Antoinetta shrugged. "I haven’t known a life outside of the Dark Brotherhood in years. This is my home. All I need is within its walls. At least Lorise lives in town so I get to see her every now and then. But of course she spends most of her time with Vicente. You’ll be staying for a while right?”

“Well, I have to. Apparently, there’s going to be a gathering that we’re all to attend.”

“Oh, you’re going to love it, Nim,” the Breton bubbled. “We can be real fun when we want to be. There’s going to be drinking and dancing. We can all let loose for once! We will get together before hand and cook and bake. Oh, and then we can get ready together! Lorise is really wonderful at doing makeup. We should plan to go shopping. Oh, and Lucien is coming and he’s bringing the other Speakers and...” Antoinetta swayed in her seat as she prattled on, her face curled into a smile so wide it was as though her whole face was a mouth. “Really, you’ll see. It will be such a delightful time. You’ll see,” she added with an insistent nod.

“I certainly will, won’t I,” Nim grinned, feigning excitement. The last thing she wanted to do was entertain. No, she wanted to mope, maybe even cry a little. She wanted to curl up on her bed with the stray cats and a bottle of wine as she read _Feyfolken_ all over again. Anything to take her mind off Raminus.

She looked down to her ring again and clenched her fist tightly. Gods, what a fool she was! How could she have misread all the signals time and time again? She thought back to his nervous fidgeting in her presence, tension that she had interpreted as romantic, and wanted to slap herself back to reality. Was she truly so callow?

Oh, how she saw it now. Raminus had made it perfectly clear to her, and only now with the glittering ring on her finger could she see it without her witless fantasies clouding her judgment. It was she who had misconstrued it all in her mind. It was Nim that was the pining, pathetic dreamer.

And the worst part about it – he hadn’t even said _no_. He was trying to spare her feelings, the embarrassment of such an awkward rejection. Well he certainly hadn’t succeeded in that.

Nim cleared her throat as she sought to brush the thoughts aside. “This party pushes my contract back, though. Originally the plan was to take off for the Imperial reserve. A bandit warlord this time. I should have completed it by now.”

“Yeah, I heard, and it sounds dangerous. Lucien sure puts a lot of faith in you.”

“Who told you?” Nim asked, though nothing would have surprised her. By now she had come to accept that her business was everyone else’s too.

“You,” Antoinetta said with a cheeky grin and nodded in the direction of Ocheeva’s door.

“Nosy.”

“What’s a nose for if not to stick it where it doesn’t belong?”

“True,” Nim replied. She glanced down at the armor the Breton assassin was mending. “What happened on your last contract? That tear looks unpleasant.”

Antoinetta scoffed.

“You really don’t want to hear.” Her face fell, defeated, as she closed her eyes and shook her head, her short blonde waves dancing about her head.

“Yes, I do. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want to know.”

“It was a mess,” she groaned. “The man I was after woke up while I was in his bedroom. I got him alright, but not before he managed to stick his dagger into my thigh. I fell through the window on my way out.”

Nim’s eyes widened with alarm as she whipped her attention to Antoinetta’s legs. A blue, cotton skirt covered them, and she didn’t seem to be in pain “Were you badly hurt? Do you need--“

“No, I’m fine now. Vicente patched me up when I got back. The window wasn’t very high from the ground anyway.”

“Well, you completed the contract, and you made it out alive. That sounds like a good day’s work to me.”

Antoinetta looked away and released a heavy breath. “I forfeited the bonus. His wife heard the struggle from the other room and caught me over his dead body.”

“Oh, Antoinetta. You made it back in one piece. There will be other chances.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” she said, her nose wrinkling as she stared bitterly at her torn armor.

“How do you mean?”

“You’ve had contracts lined up for you since you came back from Bruma. Me? I’ve clearly shown how incompetent I am. That doesn’t get you far around here.”

“I’ve spent quite a lot of my time training with Vicente. If it wasn’t for his guidance, I don’t know--“

“You were just as well equipped before.” Though Antoinetta offered Nim a smile, the edge in her voice sliced through the cheery façade.

“I don’t know if that’s true.”

“He’s obviously taken a shine to you.”

The pique in the Breton’s tone bit like frost, and Nim fiddled with the chain of her amulet as she wondered what she had done to elicit such an irritated response. “Vicente? Well, I’m quite fond of him too. He’s been an incredible friend and--”

“Our Speaker. Don’t act like you don’t know it’s true.”

Nim shifted uncomfortably in her chair as she watched the Breton’s eyes narrow. “Can we not talk about Lucien? He doesn’t know me nor I him. There’s nothing to say.”

“He even bought you a gift.” Antoinetta peered up to see Nim toying with the chain around her neck, the Bosmer’s fluster apparent by her crooked lips and pinched brows.

“S'nothing but my bonus. He probably looted it off a corpse somewhere.”

“It was enchanted specifically for you. He obviously put thought into it. Is that from him too?” She pointed her needle toward Nim’s hand, watching with a stifled glint of envy as the emerald glittered against the flickering candlelight. “It’s new, isn’t it? You weren’t wearing that before.”

“It’s not from him, Antoinetta.”

“Why don’t you just accept that you’re gifted and let it be? You’re not fooling anyone by acting coy.” Nim startled at the venom in the Breton’s voice and recoiled against the back of her chair. “All of your contracts were flawlessly executed. Everyone knows it. Lucien sings your praise, and you don’t even appreciate it! You don’t even find joy in the work. It’s just so unfair that Sithis has blessed you with anything you could want, and you’re not even grateful. All I can do is- ouch!“

Antoinetta sucked air through her teeth. She pulled her finger close to her and watched the little bead of red form where the needle broke her skin. Without warrant, Nim reached across the table and took the woman’s hand, letting a soft blue glow engulf it. Antoinetta wiped the blood off with her thumb and stared at the healed fingertip with a pit of shameful guilt growing in her stomach.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered and turned her head, mortified by her sudden outburst. She gazed deeply into the pool of melted wax beneath the wick of the candle beside her. “I didn’t mean that, Nim. Listen to me whining like a brat. It’s pathetic.” 

“I told you I didn’t want to talk about it.”

“I should have listened.”

Nim shifted, her chair creaking beneath her.

“I need to see Ocheeva about some preparations for tomorrow or whatever.” She stood to her feet and hoisted her pack onto her shoulder. “About the contracts, you can always improve, you know? We all start from somewhere, and if you ever want someone to practice with, I would be happy to help you.”

“Thanks, Nim. I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have gotten mad at you for something that I’m--”

“I get it. Don’t say any more, okay? We’ll blow off steam tomorrow, right? Drinking and dancing and all manners of deviant behavior.”

Antoinetta bit her lower lip and nodded through the embarrassment. “Right. We will.”

Nim returned a meek smile and walked toward the living quarter, leaving Antoinetta alone with the weight of a dozen rocks settling into her chest as she mended the last evidence of her recent mistakes.


	12. Cheers, Dear Sister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bottoms up.

**Chapter 12: Cheers, Dear Sister**

The whole of the sanctuary, minus the brothers and sisters out on contract, sat in the living quarters preparing dinner for the evening party. Nim had finished her share of the baking in the late morning, and now her blackberry tart and rosemary braided loaves (with garlic omitted) sat cooling on a table beside the pheasants prepared for stuffing.

With the idle chatter of gossiping assassins providing a pleasant, if not somewhat macabre, ambience in the background, Nim reclined on her bed with the first installment of _Feyfolken _ that she had swiped, with permission, from Vicente's bookshelves. Telaendril was in deep discussion with Gogron, Ocheeva, Antoinetta, and Vicente about her latest contract, and she had everyone's rapt attention as they chopped fruits and vegetables. Nim caught bits and pieces of the story as she turned her page. Something about a scorned lover seeking revenge, maybe mention of sliding a poisoned knife between the ribs in the middle of a crowded marketplace, if she had heard correctly. Truthfully, Nim had checked out long ago. The subject was not particularly appealing to her, and she lacked the particular well-breeding required to feign interest.

At about midway through chapter nine, Lucien had entered the room, the first sign of his presence marked by Antoinetta’s shrill squeal of excitement. It was such a high pitch that Nim could have sworn it was Schemer squeaking hello.

The remaining assassins gave their greetings.

“Speaker, I thought you would be arriving with the rest of our guests," Vicente said warmly. "Please join us.” He stood and offered Lucien his seat, but with a small shake of his head, Lucien refused.

“I’m meeting the other members of our family at the safe house in a few hours. I only stopped by to drop off a few bottles of wine to stock the--”

“Oh?" At the mention of wine, Nim's ears perked. "From what vineyard?” She cut in before he had even finished his sentence.

“Tamika’s. A 399 in fact.”

She beamed, a tiny little cheer escaping her lips as she eyed the bottle like a long lost lover. "A man after my own heart,” she said and was quickly washed in embarrassment as the room filled with a weak chuckle. Antoinetta, despite doing the best she could to maintain a closed lip smile, looked ready to pop. “I didn’t mean it that way,” Nim corrected. “It’s a good vintage, you know.”

“Nim and I shared this bottle on the night I recruited her into our family," Lucien explained.

Telaendril snorted from across the table. "I wish my recruitment had been so relaxing. All I received was a hit on my head."

"I thought it fitting that we all share the same to celebrate her fulfilled initiation this evening,” the Speaker continued, keeping steady eye contact with Nim as she peeked up from the top of her book and stamped down the rising blush. “We are all blessed that Sithis has brought you to us, dear Sister.”

“What a touching thought, Lucien,” Gogron bubbled. “I had no idea you were so sentimental.”

Vicente smirked quietly to himself as he chopped onions, as was his duty in the Sanctuary given his lack of tear production. "There are many ways in which our Speaker may surprise you. If you get him drunk enough, he may bless us with a serenade."

The room laughed softly, save for Lucien who stood gripping his bottle of wine with pursed lips. And Antoinetta. Her attention was directed on carving through a large, orange pumpkin, and Vicente and Nim shared a brief look of unease upon watching her stab into it with unprecedented fervor.

“Where are the others?” Lucien asked, eager to change the subject.

“Lorise and Teinaava should be returning from contracts this afternoon," Vicente replied. "M’raaj-Dar is down that hall,” 

“Why doesn’t he join the rest of us?”

“Mm,” Vicente began with a hum, "Nim may have—"

“I stood too close to him, and he didn’t like me breathing his air," Nim confessed. "And well, in so many words, he told me to go piss on a slaughterfish."

"Ah." Lucien nodded stiffly. “M’raaj-Dar certainly values his personal space." 

_At least somebody around here does_, Nim thought bitterly and turned her page. “I don’t take him too seriously.”

“I’m afraid he’s quite serious, Sister,” Vicente insisted. “M’raaj-Dar is not known for his remarkable sense of humor.”

“He’s just a bit rough around the edges. I’m sure he’ll warm up to me eventually.”

"Rough around the edges?" Telaendril snickered. “That is perhaps the most polite way I’ve heard him described.”

“Meh," she said, unconvinced. "I bet he's only acts so lofty and condescending because he knows how attractive he is."

At that, everyone in the room burst into a fit of laughter. Everyone except Lucien. Nim looked at her fellow assassins quite perplexed. When had she told a joke?

“What, you lot don’t think so?" she asked. "I’ve never seen a more symmetrical face in my entire life, and anyone with a single eye could see his coat is very well maintained. He puts quite a lot of time into looking the way he does. It's quite obvious that it must pay off for him.”

Vicente, still chuckling, was the first to respond. “Sorry, Nim. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard anyone express interest in M’raaj-Dar.”

“Or any Non-Khaiit express interest in a Khajiit for that matter,” Ocheeva added.

“Really?” Nim asked, an inquisitive tone that suggested she did not actually believe this to be true. “Haven’t you ever read _The Real Barenziah? _Why, I lost my maidenhood to a Khajiit in fact.”

Nim continued reading before noticing that the room had grown deathly silent. She looked up from her book to find everyone in the living quarters staring at her as though she had grown another head, except Lucien and Telaendril. Telaendril was smirking mischievously to herself as she peeled potatoes and Lucien, well Nim couldn’t tell if his face expressed anger, disgust, or a desperate attempt to hold in gas.

She squinted into the room, bouncing between the sea of shocked expressions, and shook her head dismissively before getting up to head for the door. "Buncha prudes," she said, feigning derision. "Times are changing, yea? You ought to leave the Sanctuary more often."

* * *

The hours ticked by in agony as Nim waited in Vicente’s chambers for Lorise and Antoinetta to return. The Sisters had all pitched in to order Nim a new dress from a catalog stocked by Borba’s Goods in town. It was a kind gesture, she noted, but quite unnecessary. What did they need to dress up for? Who were they trying to impress in these dimly lit, dust-covered hallways? 

Nim listened to the patter of feet and inaudible chatter from the floor above as she drummed her fingers along the wooden table. At last she heard the hurried footfalls approaching the hallway outside and stood to greet Lorise and Antoinetta as she opened the door.

“Alright, birthday girl! Here it is,” Lorise cheered in delight as she set down a twine-wrapped, brown paper package wrapped on Vicente's stone slab. She threw her own backpack into the corner of the room as she clapped her hands together, waiting with a toothy grin as she urged Nim to unwrap the dress.

“Please don’t call me that,” Nim pouted as she slowly ripped through the wrapping. “It’s not my birthday, and it won’t be for another two thirds of the year.”

From beside her, Antoinetta rolled her eyes. “We just want to celebrate your success and unwind over good food and strong drink," she said. We’re not all mirthless barbarians, ya know. You’re going into this with the wrong mindset. Maybe I ought to bring down a bottle to loosen you up, hmm?”

"S'not a bad idea," Nim admitted. How else was she going to get through the night? 

Lorise gestured impatiently for Nim to continue unwrapping.“Antoinetta's right," she said. "It’s your party regardless of whether you want it or not. You might as well soak up the spotlight for one night.”

“Attention is the last thing I want in our line of business,” Nim said regretfully. "Why is that so surprising to all of you?"

When the last piece of packaging lay on the floor, Nim removed the lid of the box and inhaled sharply. She stared into the tissue paper, speechless. Her face grew wan.

The dress that lay below was the most hideous color to ever grace her eyes. She’d rather wear a gown made out of one hundred stitched Cowls of Nocturnal before she let herself be paraded around in that _thing_. She swallowed hard and stared at the brocade embossment, her eyes trailing the woven swirls across the bodice.

Upon spying Nim’s mortified expression, Antoinetta walked closer and peered over the elf’s shoulder. “Oh my." Her eyes grew wide as she took in the hideous thing. Somehow it seemed to grow uglier the longer she stared. She turned to Lorise, chewing her bottom lip. "Lorise, that’s not what the illustration in catalog had advertised at all.”

Nim unfolded the dress and held it up before her. Though the fabric was a fine quality, she couldn’t think of a single soul that the chartreuse brocade would look good on. The vibrant yellow was accented by threads of rich mustard and lime green that were stitched into ornate patterns. The cut dipped deeply at the breast, cinched at the waist, and billowed out into a ruffled skirt that was nearly the width of the table in front of them.

She frowned and she peered over the dreadful thing, met Lorise’s equally panicked eyes. “Is this a cruel joke?”

Lorise shook her head swiftly. “Oh, by Y'ffre, no! This is a surprise to me too." The older Bosmer took the dress and plastered on her most winning smile as she undid the lace ties and buttons. "Well, maybe it won’t look so bad once you put it on, hmm?”

Despite the comforting words, Lorise's suggestion did nothing to reassure Nim that this dress was anything more than disastrous. Seeing as there was nothing better to do, however, she stripped down to her undergarments and slipped inside. She turned to the mirror on the wall and held in the impulse to shriek and run away as Lorise fastened the buttons along her back.

“Blood of Akatosh, look at this,” Nim managed out. “I look like a slug. A green slug. Maybe not even a slug, just a thick wad of snot. A viscous clump of mucus hacked up from the back of—”

“Don't be so dramatic," the older woman chided. "It’s a gorgeous shade to match your…erm… eyes.”

Nim turned toward her companions with a doleful frown. “Please, for the sake of everyone who has ever looked at me, tell me my eyes don’t look like this." Antoinetta attempted to stifle a giggle, much to her chagrin. It would be better if everyone else in the room embraced the horror before them and ridiculed it as they saw fit. At least then Nim would feel much less ungrateful for wanting to burn the dress to ashes then and there. "I absolutely cannot wear this tonight.”

Antoinetta rolled her lips inward, once more suppressing her laughter, and Nim thought the woman was relishing in this spectacle far more than she was offering sympathy. Staring down at the floofy mess of yellowish-green fabric, she really couldn't blame her. It was the color of ripe booger and far too voluminous to move in without knocking over a table, all the chairs, and everyone in her path. What on Nirn were her Sisters thinking? There was no way she could greet the visiting speakers looking like a used tissue!

Lorise rummaged through the discarded box that the dress had been packaged in and pulled out the bill of sale.

“I don’t understand,” she said crumpling the receipt into a wad with a pinched expression. “The catalog had said it would be ‘meadow green.’”

“Maybe a meadow of dead grass in the dry season,” Antoinetta snorted, still eyeing the gown with that twinkling, morbid amusement. “Not even a troll would wear it to a funeral.”

At that, Nim felt a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. The smile, however, dimmed immediately when she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror once more.

“We still have time to find a replacement,” Lorise assured her. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, okay? I’ll take care of everything. Let’s focus on something else now, okay? What about your makeup?”

"What use is it? I'm doomed."

With a series of clucks and tuts, Lorise retrieved her pack from the floor and set it on the chair to sift through. She laid out her own dress on the table and pulled jar after jar of assorted cosmetics from her bag. Nim examined the array set out on the table- a small assortment of brushes and sponges, a compact of powdered rouge, a copper tin of crushed kohl, and various small ceramic pots of thick, colored creams.

“Hold still, alright?” she said softly as she approached Nim with a fluffy brush dusted in red powder.

“But this dress! Let me get out of it first,” Nim begged.

Antoinetta stood idly by, enjoying herself without restraint as she watched Lorise chase Nim around the room with her makeup brush. 

"Stop moving so quickly!" Lorise shouted, and caught Nim by the billowing train of her dress. "Aha! It's only as painless as you make it."

"This is pointless," Nim whined, the resignation plain on her face. "I have half a mind to stand the whole thing up."

“Stop talking. I need to focus on the rouge. Do you want to look like a court jester with a bad hangover?”

“No."

“Now what will you do with your hair?”

“Leave it up, I suppose?”

“You most certainly will not.”

I’ll get my comb!” Antoinetta suggested excitedly and raced out the door toward the living quarter.

Nim pouted through the brushing and patting as Lorise dusted various rose-tinted ingredients across her face. She stared down at her pitiful attire and sighed in defeat.

After finishing Nim’s makeup, Lorise turned to the small hand-held mirror and applied a thick layer of black kohl to the rims of her eyelids, just as she had done to Nim. She was now dressed in a belted blue dress with long flowing sleeves. Very plain, very simple, but so very elegant and Nim found herself gawking in both envy and self-pity. How hard could it have been to find something similar? She cursed herself for not taking the initiative to purchase her own outfit and twirled in front of the mirror on Vicente’s wall, examining herself from the back, and concluded that she looked like a rotten cupcake growing mold. Suddenly, the door squeaked open an inch.

“Girls, are you decent?” Vicente called out through the crack. “Can I come in?”

“Yes!” Lorise shouted over Nim’s startled protests. “Vicente, come tell Nimileth that she looks beautiful.”

“Nimileth, you-“ He began, still swinging the door open. “-oh my.”

“Vicente!” Lorise shouted with a scowl and one cheek blushed with rouge.

“I told you,” Nim growled, throwing the Bosmer a scathing glower.

“Oh, never mind him and his meaningless opinions," she said and waved him off with a flippant gesture. "We will—”

Half way through the sentence, Lorise cut herself off with a shriek as Nim released a blast of fire from where she stood in the center of the room. Vicente quickly shut the door and without another blink, Nim had engulfed herself in a pillar of flame.

“Oh, that worked much better than I thought it would,” the small elf exclaimed as she stepped away from the pile of ash at her feet. She let out a small cough and then smiled triumphantly finding herself quite naked, quite content, and quite covered in soot. 

“By Sithis!" Vicente cried as he cracked the door open. "Warn someone before you decide to burn the place down! I have a condition, you know.”

Lorise sprinted for the door and threw herself against it, quickly shutting it closed. Vicente pounded against in protest and inquired into the state of his wooden furniture. Nim found the concern in his voice quite alarming. She hadn’t heard the vampire quite so worried about material possessions before.

Lorise pointed to a nearby dresser where Nim retrieved a plain black cloak. She wrapped it around her body and tied it off below her arms like a bath towel, then nodded to Lorise who stepped away from the door and returned to the mirror to finish applying her makeup.

Vicente entered and scanned the room. Finding nothing out of place, he reached for the bottle of liquor on his desk and took a long swig.

“Better,” he said to Nim as she wiped a damp washcloth down her arms. "Much."

Nim offered him a grateful smile, quite pleased with the turn of events.

“Yes, Vicente. Thank you once again for your meaningless opinions.” Lorise, now done with her makeup, approached the Vampire and took him by the arm. “Come, we need to find the birthday brat a new outfit. Now where is Antoinetta with that comb?”

“Antoinetta?” Vicente queried. “Good luck wrangling her away from the Speaker now."

Nim looked over to him with a frown. "He's here?"

He nodded, taking note of her disgruntled expression. The woman on his arm gave a small pout.

“But there is still work to be done!” Lorise protested. "Look at her!"

“Work at this hour? My dear, guests will be arriving shortly. Come let's join the others and finish the setup. Nim?”

“No, you go on," Nim said, denying Vicente's arm. "I’ll wait right here until I hear word of a new outfit on the way.” Lorise stood with one hand on her hip before Vicente gently took it into his own and pulled her away.

“Well, we can’t let them see her in this state,” Lorise said, casting a sad glance back at Nim as Vicente led her out.

“And why not? I think it would make for a marvelous story.”

“Oh don’t you start with me, old man. You best…”

The door closed behind them. Nim sighed in relief. Their voices and playful bickering travelled up the stairs toward the main hall until she could no longer hear anything but the shuffle of the guardian’s bones against the stone. She moved to the mirror to assess the damage and smoothed down the flyaways of her bun. Her makeup was mostly there, mingled with some black soot along the edges of her face. She reached for Lorise’s cosmetics on the table and dipped her finger into the red lipstick. Swiping another layer across her lips, Nim struck her most sultry pose in the reflection and shuddered. A svelte seductress she would never be.

But she didn’t need to worry about that now, right? This was just a friendly gathering of like minds and they weren’t expecting a speech or anything. Nim froze, realizing that she forgot to ask Vicente just what was expected of her and began pacing in circles around the table before spotting the bottle of aged liquor he had placed on his desk. She threw back a mouthful, just in case. Immediately regretting the decision, she grimaced in disgust before releasing a long, dry gag. 

_Must be as old as he is_, she thought while holding the bottle to the flickering light of the wall sconce, but the label was far too faded to read.

Above her, she could hear shuffling footsteps and Ocheeva’s voice warmly greeting her friends. Nim took another long sip from the bottle, then another, and took the bottle with her as she laid back on the stone slab. When the lull of the liquor hit, she let her mind drifted to thoughts of her upcoming task in Skingrad and once or twice, to thoughts of Raminus and the mourning of what never was. It didn't sting so sharply now with the warmth of drink numbing her blood, but the memory was no more pleasant. Gogron’s heavy laugh echoed through her ears.

After a few minutes of gazing blissfully into the ceiling, Nim came to from the mild buzz, and panic began to set in as she heard the muffled laughs and calls of unfamiliar voices entering the Sanctuary. The guests must have arrived, she realized. Just how long had she been laying there?

Jumping to her feet, she rummaged through the set of drawers she had taken the cloak from but found only black leather and suede shirts three sizes too large. Vicente certainly wouldn’t mind if she borrowed them. No, if anything he would find it amusing. She looked around the room for anymore chests, stopping briefly to eye the bottle of liquor once more, but decided against it in the end. Eventually, she spied Lorise’s shrouded armor folded neatly atop a nearby chair. The set was complete, minus the boots which had been left in the living quarters when she came in. Nim slipped one leg into the armor before she heard a gentle _tip tap_ along the stone leading to Vicente’s room that was most certainly not the clumsy drag of the guardian’s feet.

“Sister, are you decent?” Ocheeva called after a few unanswered knocks on the thick wooden door.

“Er, come in.”

The door opened to reveal the beaming Argonian dressed in a flowing mauve ensemble who's smile fell immediately upon spotting the young Bosmer wrestling on a pair of leather pants.

“Nim! You’re half naked! Everyone is here and waiting on you!”

Nim fell over on to the bed and released a shrill shriek. She grasped desperately at her armor as it began sliding down to the floor.

“Ocheeva, I have nothing to wear tonight! I’m putting on my armor. It’s only fitting. I’m a murderer not a socialite,” she huffed, then sat up on the bed and began, once more, to pull the armor on.

“No! No, no, no! You cannot show up looking like this. Where’s the dress Lorise offered you?”

“There,” she nodded toward the opposite side of the room.

Ocheeva turned around to find a pile of ash swept into the corner. She turned back to Nim and shook her head, quite unimpressed.

“Come with me.”

“Ocheeva--“

“Now.”

The Argonian led Nim up the ladder in the far corner of the room into her own quarters. Once inside, she walked to her dresser and pulled out a thin white cardboard box. Nim could hear the chatter from outside much more clearly now that she was on the same level. Antoinetta’s shrill laugh whistled through the air, ringing against Nim’s ears as she wrung her hands. Ocheeva motioned for Nim to take the package. Inside was an emerald green dress of glossy fabric. Nim wanted to say it was satin but realized that she never truly knew what satin was. Perhaps it was silk. Whatever it was, it was certainly not leather.

“Get in it,” the Executioner demanded without so much as a blink. Nim did as she was told and did not even complain when Ocheeva wrapped a corset around her body and tightened it until she thought she heard her ribs crack.

“Hmm,” Ocheeva hummed, stepping back to look at the assassin. The short sleeves rested just barely off her shoulders. The dress was slightly longer than she had hoped given their difference in height, but the floor length could easily have passed as an intentional design. “It’s a good thing you put on weight since you’ve been here. You finally have something that corset can accentuate.”

“Thanks?” Nim replied only half sincerely. She looked down into the plunging neckline and couldn’t imagine Ocheeva ever wearing such an extravagant gown. How many parties could an assassin have time for? Nim pinched the soft fabric between her fingers. The shade of green must have looked lovely against the Argonian’s scales.

“Now, let your hair down,” Ocheeva instructed, a pleased grin on her face.

Nim furrowed her brows “Why? A bun is practical,” she protested. Ocheeva's grin fell.

“We’re at a party, Nimileth. We’re not farming.”

Again, the Bosmer listened to her superior. Ocheeva didn’t own a hair brush, as she obviously had no use for one, but she concluded that the waves left by the buns undoing were presentable enough to not waste time running off to find one. With a wet cloth, Ocheeva scrubbed some of the grime off of the Bosmer’s face and neck, doing her best not to smudge what little makeup remained on the girl. Fortunately, most of the soot was isolated to the parts of Nim left unseen. Nim hiked up her gown and gave her legs a final scrub. She gasped excitedly upon finding a long slit cut into the side of the dress.

“My, my, so sensual,” Nim cooed and stuck her leg out of the slit and tapped it around in front of her as though testing the solidity of the floor. Her bare foot left small, soot-stained tracks on the stone. Ocheeva chose to ignore this and the fact that the Bosmer wore no shoes. Some battles were not worth fighting.

Without giving Nim a moment more to protest Ocheeva opened her chamber door and lead the newest recruit out by the arm. The chatter beyond the door was silenced by the creaking hinge, and the room turned to face the two women. Nim’s eyes widened as she scanned the faces of the assassins gathered in the main hall, and for the first time since she joined the brotherhood, she was truly terrified.

Vicente was the first to move from the crowd. He walked straight for her, flashed a toothy grin, and extended his arm to walk her toward the rest of the party. Ocheeva continued toward the group of assassins that once again began chatting softly.

“Ah, Nimileth, so good of you to finally join us. Your makeup looks so smokey. And such a lovely dress too. I had no idea you were so skilled in conjuration.”

Nim followed in step with Vicente feeling as though she had no control over the movement of her feet. Glancing around the room, she spotted Lorise pouring out wine into the goblet of an unfamiliar Dunmer. Lucien and Antoinetta sat with a blonde Altmeri woman, chatting from an arrangement of chairs in the corner. She craned her neck over her shoulder, hoping to catch a better look at the Altmer who looked quite lovely from her profile. Nim couldn't help it. She had always been sweet on blondes.

Instead, Lucien caught her wandering eye, and she opened her mouth to say hello before realizing she was halfway across the room and had no intention to shout. She shut her mouth promptly and nodded her head with a meek smile. Lucien nodded back, his gaze deadpan as he trailed the path left by her flowing gown.

Nim whipped her head back around. “Now is a good time to use those telepathic powers, Vicente,” she whispered and clutched his arm tighter. “I’m panicking, What do I do?”

“Charm them, of course. It should be easy for a master illusionist such as yourself. Why don’t we make our way over and see to it that you are properly introduced?”

Vicente led her toward Teinaava and another assassin she did not recognize. A small group she could manage, and she was infinitely grateful for Vicente's interpersonal judgement as he walked her closer.

"Who is he?" Nim asked quietly as she looked the assassin over.

"He is a Silencer, a personal assistant to one of the Speakers who could not make it today."

Nim suppressed her urge to scream, instead choosing to raise her chin higher, straighten her back, and make her best attempt at a winning smile.

“Good evening everyone,” Vicente began with a small bow. “Dearest Silencer, it’s my pleasure to introduce you to our newest sister, Nimileth.”

The Silencer, as Vicente had called him, was a Breton man who appeared to be in his mid twenties. He stood about an inch shorter than Vicente, but his complexion, just as colorless and wan. His eyelids hung low, lulled by the intoxicating wine flowing through his blood, and as Nim approached, he ruffled his mousy brown hair, smoothing it along the part.

“I’m so glad you could make it," Nim said and bowed toward him just as Vicente had done in case it was some brotherhood greeting she had not been informed of. "Thank you for coming. And Teinaava, long time no see, of course.”

The Argonian gave her a warm nod in return.

“Ah, Nimileth,” The Breton man repeated slowly, testing the name out on his own tongue. He took a sip from the goblet in his hand and met her with a smirk, deep and piercing. “We’ve all heard so much about you.”

“Good things, I hope,” she replied. She attempted a smile, but it felt nervous on her lips, and hid it behind her palm as she rubbed the tip of her nose.

“Only good things," he drawled and swirled his wine back and forth. "The best of things, and we are all so impressed, you being Lucien’s new protégé after all.” 

Nim forced a chuckle. “I beg your pardon?” She couldn’t shake the feeling that his words were somehow meant to insult.

“Protégé, my dear. It means-–“

“Oh, I am familiar with the term,” she interrupted, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes at his patronizing tone. “I meant that I see no reason why anyone would think such a thing. I am the least experienced assassin in the family.” Biting the inside of her cheek, she smiled at the man and reached out to offer him her hand. "Sorry, I didn't catch your name--"

“No reason?” the Silencer laughed sharply, and Nim jumped, drawing her hand back to clutch Vicente’s arm for protection. “Forgive me, Sister. I wasn’t expecting such humility. Vicente, this is the recruit responsible for the Countess’s death, is it not?”

Vicente raised his eyebrows and nodded.

“I see Lucien has been running his mouth off,” he sighed and glanced down at the young Bosmer who was trying her best to mask her irritation behind a delicate smile. In his opinion, her act was quite compelling.

“Hmm. Does he ever keep it shut?”

The Breton extended his hand toward Nim with his palm turned upward. She placed hers atop his and the man raised it to his lips, bending slightly to plant a light kiss on her knuckles. He kept his eyes locked on hers the whole time, and Nim credited such behavior to the dramatic flair most Dark Brotherhood assassins seemed to share. The realization didn't make the experience any less discomforting. 

“You smell like you've been sitting around a campfire,” he stated coolly, a predatory leer and low whisper on his lips.

“New perfume. I went up in a pillar of smoke not too long ago.”

“How interesting." Returning her hand, the man straightened his posture. "Mathieu Bellamont," he said. “In the brief time since you’ve joined us, I’d say you’ve given us every reason to hold you to such high standards.”

“Hmm,” Nim mused, squinting her eyes. “That almost sounds like a challenge.” 

All three men around her released a hearty chuckle, and Nim felt her face growing warm. Whether due to slight embarrassment or the liquor in her belly, she knew not.

“You mistake me, dear Sister. You’ve not yet had the fortune to witness Lucien’s death-craft first-hand I presume. Otherwise your reaction to being compared in such a light would be quite different. I mean it only as a sincere compliment.”

“Forgive me then. I shall take it as such.” Her words fell disinterested and brisk through her curled lips.

“Sister, you ought to loosen up.” Teinaava tutted. “It’s your party after all. I’ll fetch you a glass of wine.”

She nodded in appreciation, and Teinaava scurried off toward the dining table where the wine and goblets were set out. She trailed his path with envy.

“Tense, are you?" Mathieu asked. "Maybe even nervous?”

Nim shifted awkwardly at the question and turned to face him, found umber eyes so dark, she could hardly make out his pupils from his irises. She paused and thought heavily on her next words. Everything Mathieu had said to her, even the tone with which he spoke felt sinister and calculating. She was certain she was being tested.

“I’ve never been around so many murderers before. Would you blame me?”

“Certainly not. In fact, I think it quite wise,” he admitted. The corners of his mouth were now twisted into a grin so wide and bowed that it looked painful to maintain. “How can anyone feel safe with all the terrible news.” He paused and cast a side-glance at the confused girl and then at Vicente who was scowling and most certainly not amused by the Silencer's theatrics. “You have heard the rumors, haven’t you?”

“Rumors?” Nim asked with a cock of her head. Vicente cleared his throat, and she felt his arm muscles tense beneath her fingers. Teinaava rejoined them shortly, and Nim released her grip on Vicente's arm to accept her goblet of wine. The feel of it in her hand, having something to cling to, gave her comfort. "What sorts of rumors?"

“Yes, rumors of the most gruesome nature.” Mathieu drummed his fingers against the base of his goblet, his fevered eyes growing wide with excitement. “Brothers and sisters found dead, murdered even. I’ve heard of whispers- perhaps I shouldn’t say. It could very well be gossip.”

“Whispers?” Nim inquired. How was it that she was only hearing of this now?

Mathieu nodded eagerly. Nim glanced up at Vicente to find his lips pursed and eyes narrowed, holding back protest.

Nim leaned in closer, beckoned by Mathieu's unfurling smile “Of what?” 

“Of a traitor.”

“Oh, come now, Mathieu,” Vicente interjected with a wave of his hand, jostling Nim who stood right in his arms path. She quickly stepped to the side and a drop of wine splashed off the rim of her cup to the floor. Vicente continued with a sharp frown. “We shouldn’t be spreading such ghastly rumors on unprecedented grounds. This kind of talk causes trouble for everyone who hears it.”

“Brother but what if it’s true,” Teinaava suggested with concern. “I have heard the same worries from others.”

“It’s an issue for the Black Hand to address in private before mentioned to the rest of the family, and certainly not an issue to discuss on an occasion as joyous as this.” He looked down at Nim, whose expression fluctuated between shock and mild entertainment as her head bobbed back and forth between the debating assassins.

“I’m sure Nimileth would like to know that all her brothers and sisters are honest, trustworthy assassins.” The Silencer gestured toward the small elf with an extended arm.

“Oh, Vicente, no need to be a spoil-sport. I don’t mind really. This is the first I’m hearing of it and no one is telling me of such things otherwise. I live in a den of assassins. Don’t I deserve to sleep easy?”

Mathieu smiled triumphantly. Vicente responded with squinted eyes and a shake of his head.

“Let us have a toast instead. Does that sound agreeable? There are a few more guests you need to meet before dinner," he said, addressing Nim.” We shouldn’t keep them waiting for too much longer.”

“No,_ we_ shouldn’t,” Mathieu replied mockingly. Vicente responded with a biting glare.

“To what shall we toast?” asked Teinaava eager to break the unease stiffening in the air between the two Bretons.

“Why to Nimileth, of course,” Mathieu said as Teinaava re-filled his glass. “It’s her birthday, I hear.”

“Oh no, it’s much too early in the evening for me to accept a toast. I’ve not drank enough for that. How about we toast to erm-“ she paused and twirled a strand of hair around the finger of her free hand while staring intently at the floor. After a brief moment of hemming and hawing she shot up and snapped her finger. “Aha, to a well executed kill…” everyone nodded in agreement, “and loosening up!”

“Murder _and _loosening up,” Mathieu repeated as though it were a question. “Quite an ambitious toast.” 

“That’s what brings us together today, is it not?”

Vicente was the first to raise his glass. “Indeed. To murder and loosening up.”

They met their glasses in the center with a soft _clink_. Nim looked around the room mid-sip , eager to break eye contact with Mathieu who seemed quite intent on downing his wine in one go without blinking. Nim glanced to her right to catch the eyes of the Altmer Speaker who had now turned around in her chair. Just as suspected, Nim found her quite beautiful. _It must be what makes her so deadly_, she thought.

The Altmer was smiling at Nim, or at least in her direction, and raised her glass. Nim blushed involuntarily and quickly averted her eyes only to land upon Lucien, who was still facing Nim in nearly an identical position to where she had first seen him. He too was staring, but this time looked nearly exasperated. Antoinetta had moved her chair directly beside his and was resting her elbow on his arm rest. Nim frowned as Lucien’s expression became a little more understandable.

“Mathieu, I really should introduce myself to the other Speakers. I do hope we can speak some more tonight.”

“Of course, maybe even out of earshot of this one,” he motioned toward Vicente with his glass. “We can have some real fun then.”

Nim smiled sincerely. Sure, he was a murderer with a very intense stare, but so was she and if she wanted to creep someone out with her gaze, she was confident in her dead-eye. Who was she to judge? He was playful, not as serious as Lucien nor fatherly like Vicente. Their talk, while brief, was not entirely unpleasant after they moved past the condescending introductions, and she hoped all of the remaining speakers were equally as talkative. The less she had to say, the better.

“Shall we?” She offered Vicente her arm.

“Umph.” He replied.


	13. A Very Degenerate Dinner Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Light hearted banter among assassins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thanks for reading this far. Please let me know what you think of the story and writing. I am always looking for feedback to improve :)

**Chapter 13: A Very Degenerate Dinner Affair**

Thankfully for Nim, it was not long until the roast had finished cooking and dinner was ready to be served. Her meetings with the other visiting speakers, Banus Alor and Arquen, had been equally as brief as her time with Mathieu thanks to Vicente’s astute awareness of her growing discomfort. By now, Nim was certain that Arquen was flirting with her, and she didn't quite understand whether it was genuine or for the sake of amusement. The Altmer seemed to enjoy how flushed and flustered her playful comments were making her, and Nim found herself too nervous and tongue-tied in the woman's presence to say anything of substance during their conversation.

Banus Alor had been a loud, crass, and nosy individual and he was extremely persistent in finding out the details of her contracts, asking her over and over questions like ‘_w_h_ere exactly on the Countess’s neck did the arrow pierce her_’ and ‘_if you could describe the expression on her face, was it more of a grimace of terror or of pain_?’ Vicente, bless his non-beating heart, had stepped in before she could even open her mouth and told Banus to wait until dinner like all the other Speakers had. That way Nim needn’t repeat herself more than once.

During preparation, they had moved the long, rectangular dining table into the main hall where there was more space to fit all the visiting guests together. As much as Nim pleaded, Ocheeva refused to let her help set the dining ware or hide in the kitchen, insisting that she sit down and mingle. Nim had declined the head of the table, instead offering it to Vicente. Lorise had sat closest to him and beckoned Nim to join with Mathieu fighting off Banus to follow after the _birthday girl_ and seat himself to her left.

Nim found herself giggling stupidly to herself, wondering what kind of sick joke she had played herself for as she looked around the table. Just what did she have to say to a room full of bloodthirsty assassins? She couldn’t hope to keep them entertained all evening even if she had trained as a court jester. Realizing she was for more drunk than she had any intention of letting on, she quickly shoved a slice of bread into her mouth to absorb some of the alcohol floating about her empty stomach and watched as the remaining assassins arranged themselves. Lucien had initially elected to sit at the other head-end, but as soon as Antoinetta had chosen her seat, unsurprisingly in a neighboring chair, Lucien volunteered the seat to Ocheeva and made a beeline for the open seat across from Mathieu and in between Teinaava and Banus Alor.

With everyone seated, the dining commenced. Vicente relaxed into conversation with the surrounding Speakers over a bottle of wine and a goblet of fresh blood. No one bothered asking from who it was obtained, and Nim’s curiosities were left unsated as she watched the red fluid stain his upper lip. Across from her, Banus was expressing his regrets at missing Lorise’s fight against the Gray Prince with deep anguish in his voice. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Dunmer’s red stare flicker toward her.

“Nimileth, please, I can’t take the suspense any longer,” Banus began in between mouthfuls of roast turkey. “We are all dying to hear about how you managed to murder the Countess without leaving any trace of evidence.”

Nim shook her head and smiled coyly. “Well, there was a hole in her neck and she was missing several fingers. I hardly call that leaving without a trace,” she disagreed.

“Oh, but they thought the guard had killed her. That was the only conclusion they could come to,” Banus continued “It was a legionnaire-grade steel arrow with the Empires logo branded onto it. Where did you acquire that?”

“From the Northwest tower of the Imperial City. They only take inventory every first and third Fredas of the month,” she shrugged. “New shipments arrive Middas. Things go missing. No one notices.”

“And what was it like, your first kill?” Arquen looked over the rim of her goblet with a twinkle of affection in her eyes and brilliantly white smile. She asked it so casually, almost lovingly, as though asking Nim what her first kiss or bite of chocolate cake was like.

“Yes, Nim do tell us,” Gogron insisted with a deep bob of his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk about one of your contracts before either.”

She released a barely perceptible sigh as she noticed the surrounding conversations around the table trail off and the attention of the other assassins turning toward her. Even Vicente, who had never before spoke of his curiosity, looked at her with eager, waiting eyes.

Banus smirked at her as she hid her nervous grin with long sips of wine. “Keeping all the fun to yourself, what a minx.”

Gods how she dreaded this conversation when she waited downstairs, and now with Banus sat in front of her, his red eyes glowing with malicious delight, she realized that no matter how crafty a liar she had fashioned herself to be in the past, there was no way she could convince the group of assassins before her that she was something she was not.

“Oh, anything I say will probably disappoint you," she deflected. "Alessia Caro was far from the first person I killed anyway. Best you keep whatever fantasies you have in your head untarnished.”

Lorise placed a hand on her shoulder and patted tenderly. “Oh right, Nim’s not a fan of unnecessary bloodshed, if you haven’t heard.”

A muffle of laughter broke out amongst the dinner party, save M’raaj-Dar who rolled his eyes so hard they nearly popped out of the Khajiit’s skull. Lucien cleared his throat, and his silvered voice parted through the ruckus as the round of chuckles tapered to silence.

“That’s not what you told me on the night we met. Don’t let her modesty fool you, Brother,” he advised to Banus on his left. “It’s all a ruse. Our dear Sister is playing the long con.”

Nim laughed sharply, catching Lucien's eyes as he leered at her.

“Yes, I’m quite vicious, sneaking into the rooms of old and encumbered men to do what nature was bound to do soon anyway. All the geriatrics fear me. Did you hear about the next little number I've been assigned? To steal a sick man's medicine." She waved her fork through the air as she babbled on, taking pause once to skew a roast potato. "I swear it’s like nobody trusts me to do any of the dangerous work around here.”

She offered the Speaker a wry smirk and leaned her face into her palm as she rested her arm on the table. His lips smiled back, curled yet humorless, but his eyes, with the brazier above casting perfect reflections of dancing flames across the blackness, were positively devilish.

“A bit of danger, eh?" Arquen chirped. "Aren’t you the little creature who snuck their way into the Imperial Prison without any notice from the guards?” Nim masked the rise of blush at Arquen’s cutesy tone with a long sip of wine. “I bet you slipped right on through the bars, tiny thing like you.”

“And she choked the poor man on his last meal! She’s quite an artist when it comes to cover-ups,” Lorise chimed in with a proud, doting smile as she looked to the smaller Bosmer beside her. “Why you should hear about the stunt she pulled up in Bruma--"

“Well that’s enough about me then.” Nim waved her hand through the air before turning to address Arquen. “Do tell, Speaker. What was your last contract like?”

Mathieu interrupted before the Altmer could slip a single sound through her parted lips. “Lucien was telling us all about your recent escapades. What was it about Bruma... a stuffed minotaur head?”

Lucien nodded, quite pleased and almost prideful, as he cut through a slice of turkey breast and dipped it into a pool of gravy.

“And just before we arrived in Cheydinhal, what were you saying, Brother? Something about a first-mate, I believe.”

“A pirate captain’s mutiny down on the waterfront,” Lucien corrected.

“Yes, we all heard of that one. Your very first contract, wasn’t it.” Avoiding Mathieu’s febrile stare, Nim looked down to his plate and noticed he had hardly eaten anything. Instead, he raised his goblet to his lips, now on his third since they sat down to dinner.

She nodded. “Indeed, it was.”

“But if not Alessia Caro, who was your first kill?” Arquen asked, her eagerness and sultry expression never faltering.

Nim thought back to her adolescence with numbed soreness. “A raving skooma addict down in Leyawiin,” she admitted with a mouthful of roasted potato. “She had no money for even the cork and threatened to off me if I didn’t give it to her anyway. It was the first time anyone had actually made good on that threat.”

“You were a skooma seller?” M-raaj-Dar’s voice dripped with judgment, but his briefly widened eyes betrayed the slightest hint of surprise.

“For the Renrijra Krin. Brewed it for a spell too. Never sampled it myself, but I heard it was some potent stuff.”

The Khajiit scoffed. “A Renrijra Krin thug. Should have known from the looks of it,” he sneered in revulsion and sipped at his wine to get the bad taste of conversation out of his mouth.

Antoinetta cleared her throat from down the row of chairs. “How old were you when it happened?” She hadn’t spoken much with Nim all evening, instead finding herself quite distracted with the visiting Speakers. Given the sting of their last conversation together, Nim did her best to pretend that Antoinetta’s distance didn’t bother her. 

“Fourteen, I think. It wasn’t anything traumatizing. I saw dead bodies every other day down there, you get used to it, you know?”

Antoinetta nodded. The nonchalance was a familiar necessity she had acquired while living on the streets in her youth.

Banus rapped his fingers against the table and shifted his chair forward with loud scrape. “Enough of the side-stepping, dear Sister. I’m going mad as Almalexia here in my seat. I didn’t come all the way up from Black Marsh to return without hearing it from your own lips – Countess Alessia Caro, her death. When you watched the arrow strike, was the call as unholy and sublime as the echo of the Void itself?”

Feeling all eyes upon her, Nim didn’t dare blink away from Banus. She licked her dry lips as the memory winked into her mind’s eye. Staring down at the Countess’s body, her mouth sanguine and glistening as the blood ran over, Nim had never felt so serene, so ethereal. No thrill before had come close to the thrum of her beating heart as she watched Alessia fade before her, and every kill afterward was nothing but a pale ersatz, a smudge on her soul. Alessia Caro’s cruel reign ended, Nim thought of J’rasha, her first and most cherished lover, and his murder now avenged. She downed her glass of wine in one motion and offered the pining Dunmer one remark, the words curling on her lips.

“I only wish that bitch screamed louder.”

* * *

With dinner finished, the party took a break from the feast before starting on dessert. The assassins broke up into smaller groups, rearranging themselves and the furniture around the room as they drank and chatted. Nim found herself in a riveting discussion with Banus and Vicente on the efficacy of chameleon spells versus plain and skillful stealth. She was halfway through arguing the utter laziness and lack of talent it required to produce anything less than a 90-percent shroud cover when she spied Lucien approaching their circle from afar. Excusing herself politely, she turned and walked briskly down to Vicente’s quarters to catch her breath and pray the Speaker hadn’t heard her. The room teetered slightly in her buzzed stupor. While in front of the mirror, she tousled her hair for that extra oomph and reapplied her lipstick. The reflection looked back at her, rumpled, flushed, and a lot calmer than it had at the start of the evening. Nim shrugged her shoulders. It was better than she looked half the time anyway.

Returning to the party, Nim found her fellow brothers and sisters divided up into new circles and babbling enthusiastically amongst each other. She skirted the edge of the hall, electing to take a breather and people-watch before diving back into the forced smiles and cheers whenever someone reveled in their latest gruesome victory. She let out a tired sigh. Just as she had mentioned to Vicente earlier, smiling took an exhausting amount of effort.

Nim jumped as she felt the warm air of breath against the tip of her ear.

“They’re trouble-makers, the lot of them,” Mathieu whispered.

Nim turned her neck towards the Breton Silencer who had slid up silently beside her. His head was mere inches away from hers, but in her drunken daze, the close proximity did not startle her. A quizzical furrow spread across her forehead. “I beg your pardon?”

“Look at them,” he continued, nodding his head toward the room of mingling assassins. Gogron was arm-wrestling with Vicente at the dinner table as Antoinetta, Teinaava, and Telandril cheered beside them, spilling the drink from their goblets as they jumped about merrily. Lorise sat with Arquen in the far reading nook, petting Schemer in her lap and engrossed in deep discussion. Ocheeva, M’raaj-Dar, Banus, and Lucien sat in an arrangement of benches and chairs along the wall as they drank and chatted away.

He smiled warmly at her, the skin tight and pink around the apples of his cheeks. “You don’t even know what you’re doing here, do you?”

“C’mon now, Mathieu. I think I’ve proved I’m more than capable.”

Mathieu’s eyes were squinted into such thin lines, Nim thought they were closed. She smiled curiously as he leaned in.

“Maria said the same and look at where she is." Though his lips were curled into a playful grin, his tone was solemn. "You're in so deep you think you've hit the bottom, but it doesn't end, Nimileth. It never ends.”

Nim cleared her throat. “Who’s Maria?”

“You’re not like them. It’s so painfully obvious. Seek better things than what we can give you. Listen, Nimileth. Nothing is sacred here. Don’t trust a soul.”

“And why should I trust you? Suppose you’re the traitor, feeding me your honeyed words and lies to isolate me.”

“Suppose I am.” Mathieu chuckled, throwing his head back against the stone wall. He squinted at her through inebriated, reddened eyes. Nim rested on his shoulder as she turned to him.

“I think you’re the trouble, Mathieu. I can smell it seeping from your pores.”

“Mm, what’s it smell like,” he lulled, letting his eyes drift shut as he crossed his arms over his chest.

Nim leaned in and placed her nose an inch away from his neck.

“Like too much cheap wine and a few dead rats,” she whispered back.

“That’s just my cologne, sweet Sister.”

“I suggest you buy a new one.”

“I suggest that I should kiss you, Nimileth.”

Nim pulled herself away from him, swiftly growing the distance between them with a few side steps.

“Mathieu you’re cork high and bottle deep. Don’t be silly,” she chortled as she stepped away from the wall. “Look here comes Gogron with our dessert. Let’s find our seats.”

As Gogron entered with an armful of baked goods, the crowd began a slow trickle back towards the dining table. Nim hurried toward her seat, eager to avoid Mathieu’s drunk flirting, if that was indeed the word for it. A flash of playful mischief glimmered across the Bretons toothy beam as he raised his eyebrows at Nim who peeked around the edge of her backrest to look at him.

“Aye, all that may be true," he drawled as he continued the banter. "I am drunk, but it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t.” Mathieu approached the dining table and rapped a greasy butter knife against an empty goblet. The chatter filling the hall quieted as all eyes turned to him. After a second of swaying on his feet, he cleared his throat. “In honor of Nimileth’s initiation into our family, I propose that I kiss her.”

Nim’s eyes flew open, wide with shock. A loud guffaw escaped her lips before she pulled her hand across her mouth, attempting to muffle the snorting sound with her palm. A few stray chuckles filled the room amidst the sound of wood scraping against tile and approaching footsteps. Both Lucien and Vicente had stood to their feet at once.

Vicente shook his head low and slowly “Alright Mathieu,” he began, setting his palms firmly against the table as he straightened his back. “I think you’re starting to let the wine cloud your judgement. Why don’t we don’t we dial the coquetry back a little and enjoy some dessert.”

Lucien nodded in agreement. “Vicente’s right, Brother. You’re looking a bit paler than usual. Perhaps we ought to take you for a fresh breath of air.”

Mathieu stepped away from the table and pointed his butter knife at Lucien, then at Vicente, and finally at Nim. He released a manic laugh.

“Give me one reason not to.”

Nim held her hand to her chest, releasing an exasperated breath after laughing so hard. “Well Mathieu, suppose I am spoken for.”

The room filled with a drunk chorus of _ooohs_.

“And why shouldn’t I be,” Nim leaned forward and crossed her arms over her chest “You all ooh and aah as much as you like, but the Bosmers are the only one’s getting any real love in this dungeon.”

“Are you?” Lucien’s voice sounded first among the faint laughter. He took his seat and stared straight at Nim with his hands steepled on the table as he waited. Nim bit the corner of her lips as she thought of her painfully embarrassing rejection from Raminus and frowned.

“No.”

The sanctuary roared. Mathieu shrugged his shoulders with a lopsided expression. “Then let me kiss you, for Sitihis’ sake.”

Vicente locked eyes with him and shook his head firmly. “You will do no such thing. Now sit down before you get drunk off the desperation.”

Mathieu threw up his hands, letting the butter knife slip from his grasp and clang against the stone below. “Fine, then let the birthday girl decide.” He returned to his seat and turned toward Nim, resting his cheek on his knuckles as he leaned on the table. “Out of everyone here, who leaves you wanting and lecherous?”

Nim met Arquen's eyes and felt a warm blush in her cheeks as the table waited on her reply. “It’s a little bold of you to assume that I’d want to kiss anyone here. Suppose I find all of you terribly unattractive.”

“Nonsense,” Banus spoke up. “I know for one that I am a sex symbol of the Dunmer variety.”

“I know who’d she pick,” Telaendril squealed as she accepted her plate of pie from Gogron who was cheerfully slicing and passing around small plates as he chuckled to himself.

“Don’t,” Nim cried and followed it with a drunk chortle, a slight desperation clinging to her laugh as she shook her head at Telaendril. She darted her eyes over to Lucien briefly, remembering his disdainful stare from the conversation earlier that day.

“I have it on good authority that Nim fancies M’raaj-Dar as a God among Khajiit. I for one would like to see some of this Bosmer-Khajiit action that she is so fond of.”

M’raaj-Dar choked back on his wine, his eyes wide as moons, and curled his lips in repugnance. “Over my dead body. I’d rather lay with a scamp.”

Nim buried her face in her palms and mumbled through the cage of her fingers. “Well then it’s settled. I will remain unbesmooched tonight.”

“I see,” Mathieu nodded in approval. “You’ve got some exotic tastes.”

Nim rolled her eyes as she received her slice of pie and shoveled a hefty forkful into her mouth. “Exotic taste is how you describe fruit not people. Khajiits, they taste the same as any man or mer, more or less. Actually, maybe a bit sweeter. All the moonsugar.”

“Ha-hah! You filthy fetcher,” Banus roared.

Nim shrugged at the teasing insult as she sunk into her dessert, ignoring the scathing glower from the M’raaj-Dar at the far end of the table while smiling quite blissfully to herself. A filthy fetcher she was indeed and for that she wasn’t ashamed. There were far worse things to be known for.


	14. Against the Muted Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kindred Spirits. Almost.

**Chapter 14: Against the Muted Night**

“Come on,” Mathieu pleaded quietly beside Nim’s ear as she ignored him for the third time. Ocheeva, who was sitting on the bench beside them, eyed the whispering pair suspiciously through the corner of her vision as she listened to Gogron’s booming voice regale the small group with one of many tales of skull bashing and bone splitting.

“Stop acting like a school-boy, Mathieu.” Nim shrugged the Breton off and grinned wryly before returning her focus to the boisterous Orc.

“Maybe if you stop acting like an old crone, we can meet somewhere in the middle.”

Casting a glance to her surroundings and the distracted family members, she lowered her voice to the faintest sigh. “I’m going to give Vicente a heart attack if he finds I’m missing all of the sudden.”

“The old codger doesn’t even have a heart-beat. What’s to fear?”

Nim thought on that observation for a moment and reluctantly agreed. She scanned the room for the undead man in question and found him across the way, toppled over from laughter, and sandwiched between Banus Alor and Lorise. She had never seen him in such high spirits before. A part of her longed to hear whatever joke had just been told. What could possibly be funny enough to make a dead man look like he was suffocating?

“Hmm, I suppose I will join you,” she finally decided “but we must go fast before Vicente catches on. Come, let’s use the well-entrance.”

Ignoring Ocheeva’s darting eyes as they skittered away, Nim led Mathieu to the well where they climbed up and into the mild Hearthfire night. The cool air was refreshing especially in their inebriated state, and enveloped Cheydinhal in pure stillness. Not a single rustle of leaves greeted their ears as they walked to the front of the abandoned house and peered up toward the roof.

“You really think it’s safe to climb up?” Nim asked with a wary frown. Even while drunk, she kept a modicum of wits about her. “Suppose we do reach the roof and then it collapses down with us on top.” Looking up at the crumbling shingles and cracked wood, she decided that even contemplating such task revealed a heavily clouded judgment and that she was far more drunk than she should be.

“Doesn’t the risk make it more tempting?” Mathieu smirked.

Nim pointed to the third and highest level of the house. “There’s a window on the top floor that’s open. We could climb up that way.”

Releasing the lock on the front door with a quick alteration spell, Nim led Mathieu through the abandoned house, paying little thought to the party that continued below their feet. She slipped out the cracked window and onto the sloped roof before scaling upward on her hands and knees until she reached the chimney. Straightening her soot covered dress over her legs, Nim leaned back, gazing into the velveteen night as she waited for Mathieu to join her.

“It’s nice up here,” she whispered as the Breton approached. “Quiet.”

The purple darkness stretched endlessly above them, pierced only by the tiny orbs of starlight and the silhouettes of bats leaving their daytime roosts to forage for insects. Their flutter cut through the muted air.

“I told you it would be. I thought you could use a little stillness.”

Nim offered Mathieu a small nod of appreciation as he settled into place. She sat with her back to the chimney, Mathieu with his side leaned against it as he stared at the city streets below. They fell into companionable silence, watching the balmy night around them and waiting for any sign of movement. In the distance she heard the sound of doors closing, foot traffic from the main street as the last of the tavern-goers wandered home. The houses surrounding them held faint orange glows behind their glass windows or were otherwise dark and sleeping.

Nim felt like a shadow sitting atop the abandoned house, so far removed from the citizenry that slept soundly in the neighboring houses. She knew she’d never be one of them. She’d never have a stable routine or hold a reputable job that didn’t require her to harbor secrets about the evil that lurked in Cyrodill’s crevices. The realization had long been accepted, but still the thought carried a dull pang as it settled in her stomach. She didn’t want much from life, just a little adrenaline rush every now and then and the opportunity to learn something new. Yet somehow such a simple request had brought her here.

Nim looked toward Mathieu, his peaceful face resting in the smallest grin as he watched a stray rabbit dart into the chapel cemetery. He couldn’t have been much older than her, five years at the most. He had drank more than anyone at the party, yet he was still functioning more or less. Did he do this often? Did he need to get drunk just to face the reality of his merciless occupation?

_Does he like the person he has become_, Nim wondered.

Did she?

The Bosmer sighed and closed her eyes against then night, allowing herself to drift into inebriated daydream. Below the celestial glow, they were just a couple of youths sharing a tipsy moment below the stars. Nothing sinister. Nothing promising. If she squinted her eyes, she could pretend it was all normal, that she was just like the city-goers with their lists of errands to run and mundane worries. She was alone, but with Mathieu’s presence nearby, she didn’t find herself quite so lonely.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like if that moment never happened?” Mathieu asked, leaning backward so that his head rested against the shingles of the roof just beside Nim’s hip.

“What moment?”

“You know. The one that changed you. The one that killed you.” His voice drifted away with the twisting smoke of the chimneys around them, unfurling as it dissipated into the night.

Nim pulled her legs in close and tucked her knees under her chin. “I think I’ve died many times.”

Mathieu looked up at her as he folded his arms and tucked them behind his head. “Everyone that finds a home in our family has died at least once. Yet somehow you are still alive.”

Nim gave a gentle shrug. “To humor the Gods, I suppose.”

“You really don’t want to take any responsibility for why you’re here, do you?” The Breton smirked, drawing a sharp glare from Nim who felt a sudden flare of defense welling up. “You know that there is no one watching out for you. The world is brutal and to survive in it you must be just as cruel. We’re alive because we’ve willed it, because we refused to lay down and let the world roll over us. It was not a divine plan ordained for us at birth that brought us here. We sought it out, one way or another.”

Nim looked down at the man lying beside her. His eyes, dark brown and hollow, bore into her as though searching, and she couldn’t tell whether he was just trying to make cryptic conversation or rouse irritation

“I take responsibility,” she replied holding the tip of her tongue between her teeth. “I just pretend not to. It’s easier to say that the Gods are cursing me than to admit I have made atrocious mistakes and am trying to punish myself for them. You know?”

“Of course I do.”

Nim offered Mathieu a lopsided smile and laid herself down beside him. The movement, after sitting still for so long, left her eyes dizzy as the windless night began to dance around her. She closed them against the subtle throb rising in her head as the dehydration caught up to her.

“Who’s Maria?” she asked softly. She had recognized the tender ache in his eyes when Mathieu mentioned her after dinner, a glint that spoke of pain and loss. Nim knew it well from her own reflection.

The Breton’s ears twitched at the name. “Hmm?”

“Maria, you mentioned her before dessert.”

“Oh, I did?” His gaze shifted away from Nim towards the bough of the black oak ascending beside the abandoned house. “She was a member of our family, someone very dear to me.”

“Was?”

Mathieu nodded.

“As in a former flame?”

“As in she’s no longer with us.”

“Oh Gods.” Nim shook her head and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m awfully sorry, Mathieu. She was one of the fallen you had mentioned, wasn’t she?”

“An occupational hazard, I’m afraid. They really should do well to warn you about such things.”

“It’s a shame to hear of all the family we’ve lost. I really had no idea it was happening. But at the same time,” she paused. “I can’t imagine why anyone would find it that surprising. Look at us. We’re all some degree of disturbed. Is it really such a shock that one of us could have snapped and turned on kin?”

Mathieu nodded as Nim trailed on, his gaze growing farther away as the memory of Maria, _beautiful, perfect Maria _overtook him.

“I suspect these murders will continue until the traitor is revealed, don’t you? Gods, I wonder who is next. There must be some pattern in the killings right? I wish someone had told me earlier, maybe I can help. Do you think it’s a personal vendetta? Do you think the traitor has a list?” Catching her breath, Nim looked over to find the Breton staring at a loose shingle with a glazed expression. How long had she been prattling on?

“Gods Mathieu, I didn’t mean to sound so detached. I’m sorry. I know what it’s like, losing someone you love- er, cherish deeply. I can’t imagine it’s very easy to find companionship like that, finding someone who accepts you wholly being what we are.”

Mathieu shook the dust from his eyes and sighed.

“Not all victims are innocent, Nimileth. You know that well, I’m sure.” He looked over to the Bosmer as she slowly sat up, holding her head in one hand. She stared down at the roof between her feet, brows furrowed and picking stray debris off the skin of her legs. “Oh don’t look so upset. I didn’t mean to bring down the mood. I didn’t take you as the sensitive type.”

“Well, not all assassins are cold-hearted.”

“Ah,” Mathieu mused as he rolled over to face her. “Then how did a warm-hearted individual like you come to join our ranks?”

Nim huffed playfully, her focus still on her soot-covered feet. “You heard the story, haven’t you? Is there a soul in the Brotherhood that Lucien hasn’t told?”

“No, I don’t think there is.” Mathieu replied, drawing a defeated exhale from the Bosmer. “But why accept the offer after achieving what you wanted? If revenge was all you sought, what could we have to offer?”

Nim chewed her bottom lip and stared at her wiggling toes. “I felt maybe I would understand… things better.”

“Things?”

She forced a dry swallow down her throat before speaking again.

“There are these dark recesses of the psyche that I’ve pushed away for a long time. I’ve been wronged so many times in my life, and I never wanted to be like the people who brought me pain. Hurting people. Causing destruction. That’s the easy way out of a bad situation, but it’s an option that’s always there. Sometimes I- I do want to see things burn. I can’t always quell my hatred and sometimes I just want to watch it all go up in flames. Maybe it’s time to be honest with myself. Maybe I’m not as virtuous as I’ve been telling myself I am.”

Mathieu stared with a fixed expression, his eyes like two stones of onyx bouncing starlight back into the darkness. Finally, he gave her a reassuring nod and leaned his back flat against the roof as he gazed skyward. “I hope you find all you seek, and I hope you can still look yourself in the mirror when you learn the truth.”

“Thanks,” she replied, sincerely grateful that Mathieu did not press her further. Only in such a state of inebriation would she willingly be so forthcoming. “I hope so too.”

The pair let their eyes wander the heavens above, only silence and the heavy air of loss between them as they scanned the untamed night. They sat like that for many minutes until finally, Mathieu cleared his throat.

“Lucien could hardly take his eyes off of you at dinner.”

Nim suppressed a scoff. “I wasn't paying attention.”

“Are you sure? I thought for a moment there I saw you looking back at him.”

“What an unremarkable thing to talk about,” She groaned.

“Prickly Nimileth.” Mathieu held his laugh behind curled lips. “Sore spot for you?”

“No, but I find the topic incredibly tiresome. Everyone and their scamp feels the need to discuss our esteemed Speaker’s opinion of me or whatever. I’ve barely spoken with him. He doesn’t know me nor I him.”

Mathieu sat up, his shoulder pressing against hers, and smirked through narrowed eyes. “I wouldn’t have thought so by the way he regards you. I haven't heard him speak so highly of a member of his sanctuary since Ocheeva was promoted to Executioner.”

“Well I don’t care to hear about it,” Nim said dismissively. “It’s annoying, okay? I don’t like knowing my name is on some stranger’s lips.”

“But a part of you must enjoy it. Everyone wants a little attention, especially from Lucien.” His tone was light, almost teasing.

“What? Are you listening to me?” She recoiled away from his shoulder. “I said I don’t know him. He’s been nothing but strange with me since I joined.”

“Strange, how so?”

“You gas on like a speared netch," she groaned. "We should get back to the party.”

Before Mathieu could protest, Nim was wobbling on her feet, inching her way down the rickety slope. The Breton Silencer rolled his eyes as he stood.

“No fun. You’re as frigid as an ice-wraith in Evening's Star. So uptight.”

“Oh boo-hoo. The whole sanctuary is filled with gossips. Go ask them for rumors.”

Nim lowered herself down slowly, quite aware of her weakened reflexes as she dangled on the ledge of the roof. Slipping into the attic, she found herself frozen in unexpected unease as the faint sounds of labored breathing and throaty groans travelled up the stairwell from the floor below. As Nim stood there processing the disturbing noises, her interpretation of the muffled noises became increasingly clearer. They weren’t pained, they were pleasured.

She felt her blood turn electric. The house had been empty when they entered. Had she left the door open? Only a fool would enter this house given the rumors circulated by the locals. Fools or desperate adolescents.

Casting her night eye, Nim proceeded to the second floor with ginger steps to keep the wooden stairs from creaking. The scene she happened upon would be burned into her memory for days to come.

“Oh, Mara mother mild,” she gasped.

“Nim?” Antoinetta bolted up on the bed in the middle of the room, her hands clutching the bare skin of her chest as though to conceal herself through the shadows. Her eyes grew wide as she scanned the darkened perimeter and rested them on the outlines of two slender individuals standing at the bottom of the attic steps.

Nim stepped backward, bumping into Mathieu’s chest, as she recognized Lucien, his body rising from the bed. He smoothed down his robes with one hand while the other brushed against his mouth to wipe away the smear of lipstick that stained the corners.

“Ah Lachance,” Mathieu bubbled gleefully as he stepped forward. “Come to enjoy this tranquil Summer night? And with a beautiful lady friend to accompany you too. They say great minds think alike.”

Nim watched in horror as Mathieu sauntered towards the bed. She pulled him back by his arm. Unsure of Antoinetta’s state of dress, she would not let him step any closer and risk further embarrassing the stunned woman. Mathieu responded by wrapping his arm tightly around the small Bosmer, pulling her stiffly against his side, and placing a light kiss on her temple. She heard him inhale against her hair and pulled herself away from his side in confusion.

“I see you’re getting along well with the rest of the family, Nimileth.” Lucien’s smirk was faint and wintry, but even through the dark she could see he was attempting to set her and the visiting Silencer ablaze with his glare.

“Yes, I’d like to say so. I see the two of you have some business with each other. Mathieu, we should go. I’m sure Vicente is looking for us.”

“Oh, let him look," he scoffed contemptuously. "He’s immortal. He’s got all the time in the-“

“Mathieu,” she hissed and, without waiting a second longer, stomped off toward the staircase and down into the basement.

Nim waited before the Black Door, eyeing it from her periphery with the familiar sense of dread that seemed to emanate from its mere proximity. She shuddered at the memory of recent events. _Lucien and Antoinetta, how did I miss that?_ And now Antoinetta’s reaction to her advancements and bonuses from the Speaker made much more sense. A part of Nim had simply assumed her affections to be unrequited. She knew better now. Whatever existed between them was obviously being reciprocated. 

Nim heard the basement door squeak open and spun around to face Mathieu. His beady eyes watched her, quite pleased with himself, as she huffed angrily.

“Why did you do that?” She hissed. Her shoulders shook involuntarily as she spoke.

“Do what?”

“You implied we were getting all hot and frisky out there. It’s like you were egging him on. That was very uncomfortable for me. If there is some cock measuring contest between the two of you, leave me out of it.”

“My dear, we were just joking, Lucien and I.” The harsh, predatory glimmer she had seen when they first met returned to Mathieu's eyes. His gaze grew darker, heavier the longer she stared into it.

“Well maybe you should explain the joke to me then,” she replied, pushing open the black door and walking swiftly away from the Breton. “I don’t understand how it was funny.”

The main hall of the Sanctuary had emptied considerably since they stepped out. The visiting speakers were nowhere in sight and of her brothers and sisters, only Telandril and Gogron could be seen sharing a tender, wasted moment as they snuggled each other on the armchair in loud slumber.

“Nimileth,” Vicente called out from beside her. Before she could even swivel around, he had bounded up from the living quarters towards her. “Where were you? Are you okay?” His eyes scanned the young Bosmer’s face rapidly and narrowed at the sight of Mathieu skulking a few paces behind.

“Yes, Vicente quite fine, thank you. Just needed some fresh air. Where is everyone?”

“Retired to bed if they could still walk themselves."

"Oh, I kind of wanted to say goodbye." NIm said regrettably. To one woman at the very least.

"Ocheeva is seeing our guests to their lodging. Mathieu,” he addressed the Breton over Nim’s shoulders. “You should join them. It’s getting rather late. Why don’t I show you the way?”

Mathieu responded with a small, unamused eye roll. “How chivalrous of you, Vicente.”

“Only the best service for our esteemed visitors.”

Mathieu turned to Nim, releasing his playful expression with a sigh. “I guess this is farewell.”

“Good night, Mathieu,” she replied curtly. The coolness in her tone brought a frown to Mathieu’s face, and Nim looked down at her feet, feeling a sudden pang of guilt from the icy nip of her parting words. “Um, maybe we’ll see each other again sometime.”

“Hmph,” the Breton chuckled. “If fortune is on our side, then I think we will.” He bowed toward her and departed with a small smile that Nim wanted to believe was genuine.


	15. Fine Drink in Good Company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay this is the last chapter that involves the party at the Sanctuary. Sorry it has been such a long event! The chapters got so long and I didn't want it to be condensed or put it into one chapter that was 20,000 words. Time to move the plot along!
> 
> Also more Lucien being... disturbing.
> 
> *TW* - vulnerable drunkenness, unsolicited caressing, and a whole lot of creeping

**Chapter 15: Fine Drink in Good Company**

For such a late hour, the echoes of the Sanctuary hall revealed signs of conscious life. The shuffling of the guardian and his creaking joints. Schemer’s nibbles on the dinner crumbs as he perched himself on a dining chair. Nim’s incessant tapping on the armchair as she waited for Vicente to return and attempted to drown out Gogron and Telandril’s sporadic snores.

She knew that she should stop drinking. Anymore and she was bound to make herself sick. Vicente had left her with a cup of water and sat her in the corner of the main hall as he escorted Mathieu to the safehouse. Nim sipped it slowly, attempting fruitlessly to stabilize her spinning vision.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

The voice rang dully in Nim’s ear, and she swallowed a flare of irritation as her silence was forced to an end. She turned to face an approaching Lucien and sipped loudly from her cup, watching with lidded eyes as he drew closer.

“Speaker,” she gurgled out as water trickled down the corner of her mouth. She wiped at it gracelessly with the back of her palm.

“Oh, is it formal titles now?" Lucien asked, raising his brows. "What a shame. 'Eliminator' doesn’t roll off the tongue quite as melodically.”

“Helloooo Lucieeeen,” she sang out. “Better?”

“Much," he nodded. "You’re not avoiding me, are you?”

“What, have I done something to make you think so?”

“We’ve hardly spoken this entire evening.”

“Yes, well, we’ve both had quite a lot of people to entertain. Busy, busy bees we've been.” If she wasn’t already so drunk she might have found herself embarrassed in his company, given what she had seen him doing to Antoinetta less than an hour ago.

Lucien turned his head to look around the main hall, resting his eyes briefly on the slumbering Telaendril and Gogron before returning them to the small Bosmer. “It seems our guests have retired for the night, and you don’t look so busy now.”

Glancing around her, Nim could think of no excuse to make that would grant her leave from the Speaker’s presence. Damned her and her slow, inebriated wits!

“I guess I could spare a moment of my precious time,” she said listlessly and straightened herself against the back of the chair. “Where’s Antoinetta?”

“Asleep." Terse, the reply. Nim squinted at him.

“That doesn’t really answer my question. I didn’t see her come in.”

“Rest assured, she’s sleeping soundly.”

“Where?”

Once more, Lucien raised a brow. "Concerned are you? Do you not trust me?"

“Alright, alright," she said at his non-reply, waving her hands through air as though batting away a hovering fly. "It’s none of my business. You want to have a drink or what? I’m not sure I can get through this conversation without one.”

“How cordial.” 

Lucien walked toward the remaining wine bottles and carafes of liquor that sat on the far table. As his footsteps trailed off, Nim closed her eyes, listening to the soft clinking of glass.

“You're insolence is unfamiliar to me," Lucien told her. "I am willing to disregard it for now."

"How fortunate for me," she drawled.

"Your choice of drink?"

“Hmm, what have I already had today?” she mused, tapping her chin lightly with her pointer finger. _Surille, Tamikas, some Cyrodiliic brandy. What’s left to try_? “How about some of that Argonian Bloodwine that Banus brought with him. I’ve always been curious about it.”

Lucien frowned at the request. Before him lay only half full decanters of assorted spirits and uncorked bottles of wine with labels too stained to read. “You better keep that interest piqued,” he said.

“Damn, I’ll keep dreaming in that case. I’ll have, um... whatever then. Doesn’t matter now. I’d drink anything like it was water.”

Lucien returned to Nim's corner with two goblets and a bottle of dark red wine. He lowered himself into the chair beside her, poured out their drinks and reclined backwards. He watched silently as she took her first sip, and she met his eager eyes with a stifled expression, not as vacant as usual given the copious amount alcohol in her system. Instead, a flushed glow saturated her cheeks and her eyelids hung low, lulled and sleepy.

Lucien twisted the stem of his goblet between his fingers. “I would like to know more about you, Nimileth,” he said.

"Oh is that so?" She shook her head, Lucien’s body teetering in her vision despite him remaining quite still and seated. “I’m terribly dull. You don’t really want that.”

“And why not? We haven’t had the pleasure of becoming acquainted in your time here.”

Nim pointed an accusatory finger towards the Imperial’s chest. “Maybe if you didn’t lurk around so much and actually announced your presence upon arrival, I would be more inclined to engage.”

“Is that what you think of me,” he chuckled dismissively. “A lurker?”

“Does it seem a misrepresentation to you? Don’t tell me you lack an ounce of self-awareness. If you’re not a lurker, then what are you? What do you do for fun?”

“I don't think you really want me to answer that question truthfully,” he whispered, a devilish smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as he leaned forward.

Nim could think of a few unsavory things that might tickle his fancy and rolled her eyes. “You can’t possibly be that one-dimensional.”

He paused to sip his wine. “I play the lyre," he said at last. "My residence has wonderful acoustics.”

This drew an exaggerated gasp from Nim. She placed a hand across her chest, feigning surprise. “I can’t believe you actually have a hobby outside of torture and dismemberment,” she jeered. “Are you any good?”

“I suppose it’s subjective."

“I didn’t take you as one for modesty," Nim tutted. "I’d like to hear you then, make my own judgement. Maybe you could serenade me. Divine's know I could use it.”

Lucien’s lips quirked, eyes flaring brighter as though pleasantly surprised by her playful invitation. Nim felt her cheeks grow a touch warmer. She hadn't meant for it to sound so kittenish. Usually when she spoke with Lucien, she felt the need to remain guarded and defensive. He must have noticed it too, but she dare say he seemed to enjoy chipping away at the stone wall she maintained whenever he engaged her in conversation. What had happened to that wall now? Damned her and her slow, inebriated wits!

“Perhaps I’ll invite you over sometime,” he suggested, watching diligently for her reaction. Nim parted her lips to decline and quickly shut them, slouching back in her chair. The thought of Lucien with a lyre made her want to laugh, but she forced it down with a wavering grin. Instead, she waited for him to continue. He did, but only after taking a long moment to study the curvature of the rare smile that crept along her mouth. “What about yourself," he asked. "Musically inclined?”

She shook her head softly. “I can a hold a tune, but it’s nothing to write home about. I screamed a lot as a child. It strengthened my windpipes.”

“Well look at us. We’re half of a troupe already.”

Nim caught herself chuckling and quickly cleared her throat. Was he joking with her? Was he actually being playful? She smiled through the unease that rang like a warning bell in the back of her mind as the last bit of sober caution left her.

“And what do you do when you’re not serving our Dread Father?” Lucien asked.

“I’m an alchemist,” she began. “I forage. I hunt. Some petty theft if I find myself in the right place at the right time. I train with Vicente as my schedule permits. Some screaming every now and then. Can't let that skill grow rust.”

“Very busy,” the Speaker said sarcastically.

“Busy bee.”

Lucien readjusted himself in his chair, shifting it another inch closer to Nim. She noted the decreased distance between them, said nothing of it, just stared.

“Tell me about where you grew up.”

Nim scoffed and shook her head. “I’m not telling you that. You look like the kind of man who’d try to use my past against me. You know, you’re not going to get any secrets out of me with a glass of cheap wine.”

“Then maybe you should have another.” His response came out more brusque than intended, and he breathed slow and deep, suppressing the flare of irritation behind a forced grin. Not all of her guard was down, it seemed. 

She held out her goblet for a refill. Lucien obliged. “Sure, but I’m still not telling you,” she said.

Lucien steadied her goblet, wrapping his own hand around hers as he poured. “What would you rather talk about then?” 

For a moment, Nim allowed his touch to linger as she studied his face. He was focused on the flowing wine, dark lashes fluttering open and closed while the candlelight flitted across his eyes. She found them much warmer now that they weren’t directed at her. Pleasant. Almost.

“Let’s talk about… the neighboring provinces. Have you travelled out of Cyrodiil much?”

Lucien nodded as he settled backwards and laid his elbows on the armrests of the chair.

“On contract?”

He nodded again.

“Where? Don’t they have local sanctuaries for that kind of thing?”

“They do, but even assassins need to stretch their legs sometimes, experience new environments. You learn a lot from working in unfamiliar settings. I was in Riften last Evening Star trailing a bandit leader. His camp was based out of a cavern in the foothills of the Jerall Mountains, but he was heading home for the New Life Festival."

“A real family man, was he? Mama's boy, perhaps?” Nim snickered to herself and then quickly frowned at the image of a mother mourning the death of her child. Bandit or not, he was somebody's son. She worried the corner of her lip with her tongue, silent and staring intently at the grout between the tiles of the stone floor. She sat like that for several moments, lost in thought and perhaps suppressing a building nausea too. Thin wrinkles formed above her furrowed brows. The room began to spin.

Lucien cleared his throat, and she looked up to find two of him watching her curiously. Suddenly reminded of his presence beside her, she blinked, shaking her vision back to normal, driving the second Lucien away. "Oh, Riften," she said, reaching for her cup of water and directing her attention back to their conversation. "Was it cold up there?”

The Imperial narrowed his eyes at her. “It was Skyrim at the beginning of Winter.”

“Yeah, I suppose I ought to have known that. Did you see a Sabre cat? What about a mammoth? I hear there are these giant spiders up there that can project venom from their mouths. You see any of those?”

“A dead Sabre cat that some hunters brought in to market to sell. The eyes and fangs are valued for their restorative properties. “

Nim twirled her silver ring around her finger, attempting to focus her racing vision on one simple task. “Riften the only place you’ve been to up there?”

“I saw a fair bit of Markarth.”

“Dwemer city, right?” Fathis Aren had spoken of entire centurions unearthed from the Dwemer ruins of Skyrim. The thought of such a sight in its original environment sent a chill of prickled hairs up her arm. “I wonder if they’re in need of any excavators,” she blurted absently.

“Are you that eager to get away from me?” Lucien teased with a soft humm.

Nim started at the playful tone of his accusatory words. “No, I--“

Fighting down a smile, he cut her off. “My turn to ask a question. How did Alessia Caro wrong you?”

“She…” Nim paused, debating whether or not to risk divulging anymore personal information to the talkative Speaker. But he already knew more about the Countess’s assassination than anyone in the Sanctuary and her tongue was already thoroughly loosened.

“She was a vile human. Less than that. A sload. As a Countess, she was inhumane. She was- she was a monster."

"What made her so?"

"The policies that she supported led to unspeakable living conditions for the Argonians and Khajiits of County Leyawiin. I saw it all first-hand when I lived there. Really, she looked down on anyone who wasn’t Imperial, but those two races got the worst of it. She threw them in jail, tortured them without trial, split up families, evicted them without cause. You know." Nim felt her face contort as she spoke, pinching in the center as she described the Countess's cruel acts. With each utterance, her eyes darkened, eventually falling to her lap doleful and glazed. "She was a disgusting woman and ridding this world of her presence was a favor to Cyrodiil.”

“She hurt someone close to you,” Lucien said more as a statement than a question. “You struck out of vengeance. It wasn’t personal.”

“It was personal,” Nim insisted. She shook the mourning from her eyes and held his probing stare firmly. “She didn’t need to lay a finger on me for it to be so.”

“She hurt someone you loved, the Khajiit you spoke of earlier today. She was responsible for his death, wasn’t she?”

Nim shifted in her chair as she stared into her goblet. Lucien followed her subtle movements, the tight squeeze of her right fist, the subtle scrunch of her nose. Disgust filled her from the pit of her stomach up to the dark of her eyes. She downed the contents of her cup. “Yes,” she replied and poured herself another.

“So,” he mused with an impish smirk. “You are capable of passion.”

Nim raised her brows, a curious smile twitching at the corner of her mouth.

“Of fire and of fury,” he continued.

“I’m not a stone, Speaker, of course I’m capable of it.” Nim giggled dismissively as she raised her arms above her and arched her back into a long stretch. She tucked her interlocked fingers behind her head and leaned backwards against the armchair, releasing a sedated sigh as she settled in. 

“Ah, but you hide it so well,” he countered. “Why bother with a stoic facade?”

“Well, not everyone can be as passionate as you are, Brother.”

Lucien shook his head lightly and tutted. “And it’s such a waste.”

Nim scoffed quietly and drew a deep breath. “Not this again.” She tilted her head back against the chair and let her eyes roam lazily over Lucien’s disappointed features. The longer she met him with her content little simper, the harsher they seemed to grow.

“Fine,” the Speaker huffed. “What would you rather discuss? The surrounding provinces? I bet you’ve never even been to any. I bet you’ve lived in Cyrodiil all of your life." Lucien drank heavily and bit the inside of his cheek, his patience clearly stretching thin. "Tell me I'm wrong.” 

Ignoring the thick air of condescension wafting from his tone, Nim pursed her lips and delved deep into thought. “What about… your favorite fruit.”

Lucien’s eyes went wide for a moment, surely having misheard, but upon spying the genuine curiosity on the Bosmer’s flushed face, he decided to clarify. “My favorite what?”

“Fruit,” Nim exclaimed excitedly, leaning forward so fast she had to catch herself by the armrest to keep herself from falling out of the chair. Regaining a steady posture, she started again. “The seed-bearing structure of a flowering plant, does that make it any clearer?”

“Um.” Lucien glanced around the room, his eyes resting on the dining table and its array of cluttered plates and food scraps. “An apple I suppose.”

Nim squinted at the Speaker and shook her head slow and listlessly. “No, it’s not. You just picked the first thing you saw. S'okay. You can take your time. I’m obviously not going anywhere.”

“Well, there are these berries that grow in the Ascadian Isles of Morrowind. Comberries, they're called.” Lucien reclined in his seat as he recalled the colorful memories of his first trip to Vvardenfell. “They’re not that great on their own, but when cooked with a little sugar, they make quite a delightful confection.”

“And your favorite vegetable?”

“Umm, a pumpkin.”

“That’s also a fruit.”

Lucien lowered his brows into a glower. “No, it isn’t.”

“’T’is,” Nim slurred. “Has seeds, does it not?”

“What about a tomato? It has seeds.”

“Tomato is also a fruit.” Nim nodded, raising her empty goblet of wine triumphantly into the air before attempting quite unsuccessfully to drink another sip.

Lucien shook his head scornfully. “That’s nonsense if I ever heard it. What about corn?”

“Thash a grain,” she mumbled and quickly corrected for her garbled pronunciation with a dry swallow and stifled cough.

“A grain?”

“It comes from a grass just like wheat, or oats, or rice.”

“Rice is a grass?”

“I’ll tell you what’s not a fruit. Cabbage. Leeks. Cauliflower. Carrot. Potato. Onion. Radish,” she said in one fluid breath while counting off the names on her fingers. “You catching the pattern?”

“Hmm,” Lucien mused, finding himself thoroughly surprised that he was still entertaining such a conversation. “Then I think it would be lettuce.”

Nim bobbed her head with slow enthusiasm, her eyes flitting closed. “A fine choice, that lettuce is. So crisp, so succulent.”

She sat like that, drifting into another plane of consciousness, while Lucien held silent, her head bobbing to a cadence only she seemed to be aware of. Lucien crossed his legs and cleared his throat which seemed once again to inform her of his lingering presence. She opened one eye. It watched him lazily as he took a sip of wine, and Lucien found himself uncharacteristically unnerved.

“And what is your favorite vegetable?” he asked, the words sounding so childish and foreign on his tongue. How was it that he found himself down in the Sanctuary at one O’clock in the morning discussing produce while a very attractive Breton woman lay waiting for him at Fort Farragut?

Nim slapped her knees with unprecedented fervor for having been in such a drunk stupor seconds ago. “Oh, a potato, hands down. They’re extraordinarily versatile. So many ways to slice them, and so many things to do with them once they’re sliced.”

Lucien paused as she carried on, his eyes fixated on the relaxed sway of her limbs and the shimmer of light against the glassy greens and browns of her irises. Despite knowing it was in his best interest to take his leave, he found himself unable to depart from their crop-centered exchange.

“Have you ever had an ash yam?” He asked.

Nim’s eyes glowed with the spirit of inquiry. “Are those also native to Morrowind?”

Lucien nodded. “They possess a very unique flavor profile. Smokey, is the best way to describe it. I’ve yet to experience it in any other dish.”

“Mmm, I like smokey flavor,” the girl hummed. Absentmindedly, she reached out for Lucien’s hand and gave it a series of rapid pats. “We should go to Morrowind then. I would like to taste these comberries and ash yams. And some of that sujamma Banus was talking about. We should go find some.”

Lucien placed his free hand atop hers, mindful of the warmth that radiated from her skin beneath his palm. “Maybe when you find time to fit it into your busy schedule. It can be dangerous for our kind there.”

“Oh?” She queried, her voice rising to such a high pitch he would have mistaken it for a birds chirp had he not been staring directly at her lips. “The Morag Tong, huh? They can just smell Dark Brotherhood all over you huh. I bet you reek.”

Before the Speaker could respond, Nim launched herself into an aimless screed about the vegetation of Morrowind, quoting little scraps she picked up through reading or random facts that she had learned from Fathis Aren and his herbarium. Lucien endured it quietly, speaking only when he recognized the name of a particular plant and could offer up several of its alchemical properties. She laughed at that, for some reason, and he found that he enjoyed the soft melody her voice carried.

“You know, I hear that in Morrowind there are these great big trees – no. Tels,” Nim said raising her brows a few times in sly satisfaction as she recalled the proper name. “Muchrooms. Mush... mushrooms. Big ones.” She offered Lucien a few enthusiastic nods. “Big.”

He watched her dazed eyes trace the outline of his face as she breathed slowly, her chest rising and falling in lax rhythm. He thought she looked different in the orange light of the wall sconces flame. Not as spindly as he remembered, less breakable. Lucien found it a shame.

She was such an insolent little thing, he thought. It was quite an unusual trait for a member of his Sanctuary to possess, and he imagined h'd have some fun wringing it out of her. He paid no heed to it now. She was still new, and just as everyone else had, she too would learn the esteem of a Speaker's role.

“Or what about Grahtwood?” Nim continued. “I hear the trees move down there. Trees with legs. Legs, er, roots? Mobile roots. Trees that house entire cities.”

Her eyes flickered open and close, fighting the call of sleep, as she mumbled incoherently. His focus travelled to the amulet that rested between her breasts. _His amulet. _Heat swelled within him, lurid and consuming.

“Ooooh. I got it. The Hisssst. Yeah, that’s it. That’s the tree. The. Tree. You know about that one, don’t you, Ram- Lucien.”

Lucien caught his breath at the back of his throat, his eyes growing wider for only a second. Was that another man’s name on her lips? The heat inside him burned deeper, burned red like freshly-fed fire as he entertained the thought of a stranger’s fevered hands roaming across her skin.

What did she do when she was not in his Sanctuary? All that time she spent away, the resistance with which she met him... he wondered if there were _others_ in her life.

_What of Mathieu_, he thought? What if the Silencer's insinuation had been true? What had they been up to on the roof? The thought settled into his chest, and with it, an uncomfortable weight grew beneath his ribs. Lucien forced down a hard, dry swallow. The very idea left him seething.

Nim murmured something incomprehensible, and Lucien watched bitterly as her head rolled against the backrest of the chair, the soft, dark flesh of her neck revealing itself to him. He reached toward her and brushed away the wavy strands of rust brown that fell against her cheek. He stayed there, ghosting over her skin and coiling a finger around stray locks of hair until Nim’s hand snaked up against his chest, grasped his wrist, and pulled him away from her face.

“Why- what are you looking at, hmm?” she hummed, her voice barely audible as she licked her dry lips.

“I could do so many horrible things to you right now, Nimileth,” he whispered, letting himself loose in the verdure of her languid eyes. “Unspeakable things.”

Nim released a lazy chuckle at the Speakers intensity and rolled her neck slowly to face him.

“I bet I could do them too. You’re not so special, you know.”

“I bet you could, my timid little creature.”

“Dreadful things,” she whispered back.

“Show me how.”

“Like this.” Nim placed both hands around his throat and squeezed lightly. “And a nice warm spell. A spell that would make you shut up forever.”

He let her keep her grasp on him. Her thumbs pressed down against his trachea, and his heart fluttered, breaths quickening as she applied a minute amount of pressure.

“Do you want to know how I’d do it?” He asked.

“Not really,” Nim admitted wearily, struggling to keep her eyes open and returning her arms down to her side with a loud sigh.

“They wouldn’t be able to recognize your body after I’m through with it. I’d take every inch of you and make it something greater. I’d make you bloom. You have no idea what self-restraint I’m practicing just to keep my hands off of you.”

“Do it then,” she beckoned him, her eyes fluttering closed as sleep called to her. “I dare you.”

Lucien hovered his hand beside her cheek, watched her eyes toss behind their closed lids. He grazed the tips of his finger gently across the skin there, warm and rosy from the settling wine. He took her chin between his thumb and pointer finger, lifting her listless face to his as he lowered himself to her mouth. Wine-stained breath blew softly against his parted lips.

“Lucien?” Vicente’s strident voice shattered his illusion, and he released a deep, exasperated breath as he turned to face the Executioner. Nim moved sedately out of his grasp as she rubbed her eyes, fluttering her lashes open and closed as the light returned to them

“What were you doing?” Vicente pressed, his teeth gritted as though using all of his strength to keep from growling.

“Nimileth and I are just making conversation,” he stated, smug conviction in his simper. Within Lucien’s eyes danced a flicker of defiance that begged Vicente to challenge him.

“Vicente,” Nim chuckled as she shifted upward in her chair and yawned with a wide stretch. “He’s going to do terrible things to me, heh heh. Isn’t that a riot?”

Vicente suppressed an instinctual urge to lunge at the Speaker and tear him from his seat onto the floor. Instead he remained stone still and turned his attention to Lucien with a soft smile.

“I think she looks a little tired, don’t you?” He was moving toward Nim before the Imperial had even replied.

Lucien stood from his seat. “Yes, I think so.” He reached out for Nim’s arm, attempting to raise her to her feet, but Vicente cut him off, stepping between them as he slid an arm beneath her knees and another around her shoulders.

“I’ll take her to bed then. Unfortunately, the party’s over it seems. Nim, say goodnight to our dearest Speaker.”

Vicente scooped Nim into his arms and proceeded toward his chambers where Lorise waited for his return. Nim giggled softly against the soft fabric of the vampire’s shirt and waved to Lucien from her new vantage point over his shoulder. Lucien offered a single wave of his hand with a deadpanned glower that bore into the back of Vicente’s skull.

“That’s not the way to the Living quarters, Vicente.”

“She’s staying with Lorise and I tonight. I think she might be sick soon. Someone should watch over her, make sure she stays safe.”

And Vicente did. With a burrowing pit in his stomach, he relayed the story to Lorise who sat with Nim’s sleeping head in her lap as she stroked the small Bosmer's hair.

“You should have believed me when I said it earlier. I told you he had ill intentions,” Lorise whispered, her voice not as accusatory as Vicente knew it should be.

Vicente ground his teeth as he watched Nim’s face twitch in her sleep.

He should have believed her. He should have known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So maybe I should have made this disclaimer sooner, but this is not a Lucien/Silencer fluff lol. Not that there won't ever be fluff, but if you're looking for a fic with an enamored Silencer, this ain't the one. Still, I hope it piques your interest and you choose to stick around :D


	16. Thinking of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recollections of the night before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! 
> 
> Slow progression, I know but I wanted to add some backstory to the characters and thus, this chapter was super dialogue heavy. I’ll get into some action in the next chapter I promise :)
> 
> Stay safe, my friends.

**Chapter 16: Thinking of You**

Nim awoke in Vicente’s chambers and found it empty save the ghost of rancid wine and stomach acid lingering in the air. Immediately, she noticed she had changed out of her evening gown sometime the previous night as she was now dressed in a soft, oversized shirt likely belonging to the vampire himself. She sat up slowly, testing for signs of persistent inebriation or an incipient hangover but found herself relatively symptomless save for a spotty memory of the night before. Walking sluggishly to the wash basin, Nim had just enough time to splash her face and fool herself into a false sense of security before the pounding in her head began with deep resounding throbs. _Son of a mudcrab, _she cursed and immediately wished for death.

Seeking out her alchemical equipment and a tall glass of water, Nim hobbled out of the room and up toward the main living quarters with her aching head held steady by her hand. The twins and Telandril sat in the nearby reading nook sipping tea and quietly chatting. They offered Nim a chorus of ‘Good Mornings’ and stifled giggles as she passed them to which she responded with a pathetic groan as she leaned against the heavy wooden doors and slipped inside.

In the living quarters, Gogron snored loudly from his bed. Nim eyed him curiously, his hulking body far too wide for the narrow bedframe, and then began scrounging through her chest and the now sparse pantries for ingredients she could make use of.

Nim sat still at the dining table with her equipment splayed out before her. She rested her head in her palms as she scrutinized the available ingredients and their properties. Without any sound being made to give away the presence of another in the room, an orange blur crept into her periphery and she glanced up to see M’raaj-Dar clad in only a bath towel as he made his way from the bathroom toward his bed. 

The Khajiit moved so silently across the room that Nim would have found it unsettling had she not been distracted by the flexion of his thigh muscles peeking out below the towel. The lack of a scowl marring his face as he gathered a change of clothes from his trunk confirmed that he hadn't yet seen her. She held her breath and watched as he calmly ran his hand over his head, tousling the long honey-blonde hair that grew there. Even through his fur she could see the sharp outline of the muscles lining his abdomen as he stretched his arms upwards to slip on his shirt, the towel around his waist dipping ever so slightly below the crest of his hips. Nim, having completely forgotten her task at hand, gawked openly at the display.

“What are you staring at?” M’raaj-Dar hissed, his idle smile quickly falling to a glower as he caught her prying eye.

“Oh nothing. Nothing, I see nothing,” she stuttered in panic. “I didn’t hear you come in, that’s all. I just looked up once, and there you were, haha. Just in a towel and me here with my alchemical-”

“I didn’t ask for a novel about your mundane little life,” he spat and gathered his clothing into his arms. “I feel filthier having just breathed the same air as you, and now I must bathe again to rid myself of your presence.”

Nim sighed loudly as she watched him leave with a slam loud enough to rival Gogron’s snores. She returned to her ingredients and had just begun chopping when she heard the sound of the living quarter door creak open. Instinctively, her heart leapt into her throat, imagining the Khajiit returning to berate her once more. Oh, but he looked so handsome when he insulted her. She hardly minded at all.

The Bosmer looked up briefly to spy Antoinetta scurrying in, still dressed in the lacy blue ensemble she wore to the party yesterday. She met Nim’s eye with a flustered, rosy-cheeked smile as she began to pull a new set of clothing from the chest at the foot of the bed.

“Hey,” Nim called softly so as to not awaken the slumbering Orc nearby. She had an inkling, however, that the Orc would be much harder to rouse than to keep asleep.

“Hey, you. Whatcha brewing?” Antoinetta slipped the sleeves of her gown down passed her shoulders and began to undress freely beside her bed.

Out of respect for her privacy, especially given the encounter of minutes prior, Nim glanced away but not before catching sight of the trail of purple blotches that marred the Breton’s decollate and travelled down the length of her ribs. Even in her hindered state, Nim could put the pieces together. She worried the inside of her cheek as she kept from commenting on the colorful display and inquiring into how Antoinetta had acquired it.

“Hopefully an emetic that will flush the rest of this toxin out of my system,” she sighed, “and then a restore fatigue potion. If not that then something that will put me back to sleep at least. I can’t believe how much I drank last night.” The very mention of the activity made her stomach turn.

“That bad, huh?” Antoinetta offered a sympathetic frown and tugged a tight cotton shirt over her head. She sat cross-legged on her bed, her fingers toying with the teeth of her ivory comb as she spoke. “Well that just means you had real fun. Let loose, right? Now you can stop acting like we’re all humorless savages.”

“No, last night I felt like the embodiment of refinement and social grace as I passed out on Vicente’s floor.” Nim took a much needed sip of water and then ran her hand up her forehead and down her temples. She squeezed her eyes closed as a wave of nausea passed. “I don’t even know how I wound up there.”

Antoinetta laughed heartily and combed through her short hair. “It happens to all of us at some point. But you looked real nice though. You know, it wouldn’t kill you to clean up more often or at the very least to be less phlegmatic all of the time.”

Nim’s chuckle hoarsened into a groan as the pounding against her frontal bones grew heavier and heavier. “I’m so hungover Antoinetta, if you want emotion and feeling, all you’re going to get from me is revulsion and nausea.”

The girls fell quiet as they carried on with their tasks, Antoinetta with readying herself for the day and Nim with preparing the remaining ingredients for her potion. Nim looked up occasionally as she drank her water, and each time she did so she glimpsed more bruises decorating Antoinetta’s skin. The woman didn’t seem pained, humming merrily to herself as she combed, and Nim accepted that if Lucien had delivered them he must have done so with permission. It was a much brighter conclusion than the alternative.

“So, what did you think of the visiting Speakers?” Antoinetta asked as she pulled on a pair of trousers and laced the ties at her waist. “You seemed awfully close to Bellamont by the end of the evening.”

“Meh,” Nim shrugged, ignoring the subtly veiled insinuation in Antoinetta's comment. “I can’t say much about them, can I? Except maybe that they’re a nosy lot with intense eyes, but that describes nearly everyone here. Mathieu, well--” she paused to drop a handful of crushed fennel seeds into her calcinator and recalled their intimate conversation on the roof. His forlorn spirit and dark humor enticed her in the morbid way that hopeless things do. His predatory smirks and questionable fixture with Lucien, less so.

“I like him,” she admitted. “Or I think I do. I don’t dislike him. That’s nearly the same thing.”

The blonde woman quirked the corner of her lips and sighed. “You’re awfully funny, Sister. Always so wary. It’s not a sin to find companionship with another member of our family, you know.”

“Companionship, huh?” Antoinetta froze briefly beneath Nim's skeptical stare, then returned her attention to straightening the fabric of her pants. “I already have friends here. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Antoinetta nodded enthusiastically, a little too enthusiastically.

“Besides,” Nim continued. “being cautious is no sin either. Especially if these rumors are true. I had to learn about the recent killings from Mathieu, you know. No one in the Sanctuary told me anything about it.”

Antoinetta bit her bottom lip and leaned back on her arms. “I don’t think it is supposed to be common knowledge. We still don’t know much about the murders ourselves. How do we know we aren’t being hunted down by outside forces?”

“Like who? The Imperial Legion? The Morag Tong?” Nim inquired casually despite her burning hope that Antoinetta had something juicier to offer up regarding the whole ordeal. Everyone in the family was so tight-lipped about these specific murderers, and she couldn't for the life of her understand why given they never seemed to shut up about the damn subject. She sliced the skin off a few aloe vera leaves and mashed them gently in her mortar, ears perked and waiting.

The Breton shrugged nonchalantly, much to Nim's disappointment, and began to work her hair into two plaits. “Maybe. All I know is the Black Hand are working hard to track down the culprit. Plans are in motion, and we should trust their leadership.”

Nim looked up quickly, meeting the Breton’s eyes as she struggled to knot her ribbon. “A plan, yeah? How can you be so sure?” 

“Oh, I may have overheard a few things.” Antoinetta cast her eyes down at her bed nervously and began to slip on a pair of wool socks. 

Nim kept her eye trained on the fidgety woman, watching as she scratched at the skin behind her ear. “Did Lucien tell you?”

“Well, yes, and I think our Speaker is doing everything in his power to keep our family safe.”

“I just hope he is as competent as I’ve been told if we’re all trusting him with our safety.” She shrugged and transferred the contents of her mortar to her alembic

“He is,” Antoinetta blurted out, almost defensively, and Nim swore she could see a faint blush rise in the woman’s cheeks. “You wouldn’t question him If you got to know him better.”

The Bosmer peeked out of the corner of her eyes and smirked. “Oh? And what would I think of him if I got to know him as well as you?”

Antoinetta froze, the pink color of her face swiftly turning a bright red. “Wha- just what do you mean by that?”

“S'not a secret, is it?” She asked with a chuckle and pointed her pestle at the woman. “The two of you.”

Antoinetta stared open-mouthed and flustered, her face burning bright as she struggled to form a response.

“Well if it is a secret, you’re not terribly subtle. I know what I saw last night. You don’t mean to tell me that was just business as usual?”

“What I do with our Speaker is none of yours anyway,” she huffed, grabbing her boots off the floor by the laces and making for the door.

“Antoinetta, I was just being crass,” Nim called out. “I didn’t mean anything by it other than to make a joke.”

But the woman had already departed for the main hall with a violent slam of the door, the second one that morning.

* * *

Nim lay half-asleep in the living quarters accompanied only by the resonant snorts of the slumbering orc down the row of beds. With her eyes closed, her mind wandered to more scenic vistas, thoughts of fresh ocean breeze and the radiating sun against her skin as she dug her feet into the shore of the Abeacean Sea. She thought of Raminus. His eyes like summer moss framed by the charcoal of his hair. The gentle curl of his lips in that nervous smile whenever she got too close, and how only Dibella could understand the longing with which she knew them. As Raminus faded from her mind’s eye, images of M’raaj-Dar’s naked form surfaced hazily into view, and in her dreams he offered her a warm smile. He laughed buoyantly and he gazed deeply at her, into her. He reached for her with his broad arms and for a moment, she thought she felt his hand against her, wrapping around her shoulder with a tender squeeze.

“M’raaj-“ Nim murmured through sleep before realizing she was actually being lightly shaken and threw her eyes open. She bolted up in bed nearly crashing into Lorise’s chin. The woman looked down at her with cool blue eyes and a cheeky grin that held back laughter.

“Blood of Akatosh, Lorise. I nearly had a coronary.”

“Sorry,” the woman whispered. “I thought I heard you mumbling. I came to see if you were awake.”

“I am now. Did you… hear anything I said?”

“I did,” Lorise replied and chewed her lip. “I’ll keep it a secret though. Feeling any better? You were out cold after booting last night.”

“Oh, holy hell,” Nim groaned. “You saw it, did you?”

“I took care of you,” the older Bosmer admitted. “Don’t worry about the dress, by the way. I’m having it washed and will return it to Ocheeva this evening.”

“Oh, Lorise, I’m so sorry you had to do that! I knew I made a fool out of myself.”

Lorise shrugged. “Don’t think about it then. Are you hungry? I just came back from shopping.”

Aside from some soreness in her abdominal muscles, Nim found that the potions had performed their desired effect and restored her to subpar levels of vigor. She hopped out of bed free from her hangover and absolutely ravenous. Lorise stood at the nearby table pulling groceries from an array of canvas bags and Nim approached ready to offer assistance and sneak a few bites of the rather supple grapes that sat in a clay bowl.

“Here I‘ll put some of these away,” Nim said, plopping a handful of the fruit into her mouth and picking up a sack of potatoes.

“No, let me. You sit. I’ll get you whatever you want.”

“I need to move around after all that sleeping I did. It’s the least I could do after last night.”

“Well okay, the dry goods go in the upper cabinet.”

Nim shoved the bag of potatoes behind a sack of rice and focused on rearranging the neighboring cabinet of milled grains to fit another bag of flour. “Listen,” she began “I hate being a busybody but is there something weird going on between--“

“Antoinetta and Lucien?” Lorise interrupted with a sparkle growing in those azure eyes. “Yes, by Y'ffre, I was wondering when you were going to bring it up. Vicente was supposed to tell you all about it but, that’s what I get for trusting--”

“I was actually going to ask about our Speaker’s relationship with Mathieu.” Nim knew just what was going on between Antoinetta and Lucien. She had seen it first-hand, and if there was any question of doubt regarding last night, her conversation with the Breton this morning had surely put them to rest. What more could possibly be said?

“Mathieu and Lucien?” The older woman let out a hearty laugh as she threw her head back. “Of all the toxic relationships Lucien is involved in, you ask about Bellamont. You sweet, little thing.”

“I just got the sense that there was history there. He seemed alright when we were talking by ourselves, but then we ran into Lucien and it was like a lever had flipped. He became oddly competitive, kind of like a younger brother that needed to prove himself or something.”

“I suppose that’s not too far off the correct interpretation,” Lorise began. “Lucien acted as a mentor to Mathieu when he first joined. He was young, younger than you even, when he was recruited, and I think he’s always felt a spirit of competition between them as he rose in rank. Mathieu’s very ambitious. He’s the youngest member of the Black Hand. But it’s nothing more than a friendly sibling rivalry I’d imagine. “

“Oh, I suppose that makes sense.” Though Nim certainly did not agree that Mathieu needed to insert her into whatever competition they had.

Lorise eyed the small Bosmer suspiciously as she folded the canvas bags and set them on the table. “What happened that made you bring it up?”

“It was nothing,” Nim assured her.

After all the groceries had been stored away, the two women sat at the table sharing the bowl of grapes between them and idly chatting about forthcoming plans for departing the Sanctuary. Lorise had an upcoming battle at the Arena with a yellow team combatant who had challenged her title. She spoke of the match serenely, longingly as though discussing plans for an overdue vacation. Nim wished her luck, to which the older Bosmer replied '_thanks but I don’t need it,'_ and Nim felt a wave of awe wash over her.

Nim planned to take her leave for Fort Sutch that very evening and expressed great relief at hitting the roads and open air once more.

“It feels like I’ve been down here for a month,” she said, clearing her throat and taking a sip of water. "I swear my trachea is growing mold. I must be allergic. Say, for all the time you spend in the Arena, why don’t you have a house in the Imperial City?”

“It’s too far away from Vicente,” Lorise confessed, a small simper forming on her lips at the very mention of her lover’s name. “Plus, I’m not much of a city girl. It’s dirty there, streets are too narrow. Far too crowded. And it's loud.”

Nim paused. She glanced about the room, appreciating the fact that they were sitting in a cramped basement where little puddles of stagnant water formed from condensation on the walls, while a nearby Orc snored as though he were Death’s personal war drum.

“Aye, it is all those things,” Nim agreed. “I bet you have enough money to live in the glamorous parts though.”

“Eh,” the older woman shrugged. “Glamour doesn’t suit me much either. What about you, get to the City much?”

“Yeah, lived there too for a bit. I had big city dreams just like any other orphan would, but the city was so much larger in my head. I like it there though. Plenty of sights to see, pockets to pick. I learned quite a few valuable lessons while I was there, and I’d never trade it. I don’t see myself returning for permanent residence. They do have some lovely public gardens though.”

“You said you lived there?” Lorise asked. “Waterfront, right?”

Nim straightened her back and met Lorise with a crooked, puzzled grin. “Yeah, how’d you know?”

“There are few places where a woman with no name can find safety and make a living when she turns up in the Imperial City with nothing,” Lorise replied with a knowing nod as she sipped her drink. “We’re not so different, you and I. Is Armand still doyen?”

Nim startled at the Redguard’s name on her lips. In her mind, she had imagined Lorise was always successful, never scrounging in the gutters of the Waterfront for the remnants of yesterdays discarded meals. “Uh, yeah,” she stammered. “He’s doing just fine. Same stick up his ass, I’m sure.”

Lorise chuckled and brought her glass to clink Nim's at the center of the table. “To Armand then, for never changing. I hope he’s found a woman by now. He was awfully uptight when I knew him and I think it would do him good.”

“He has actually.” And Nim thought of Methredhel with a wistful pang that gnawed into her belly. Though she rarely admitted it, she thought often of that grimy little dwelling she inhabited with her fellow thieves. They were good to her, and she missed the late nights on the dock, passing a ten-septim bottle of wine back and forth as they told scary stories and dared each other to skinny-dip in the waterways that rippled beneath their feet. 

She looked to Lorise for a brief moment. She didn’t speak much about her past with anyone these days and forgot how cathartic it could be, even when vague and generalized. It was... nice, having someone to talk to without fear of judgement. It wasn't something she had at the University.

“My little sister always wanted to visit the Imperial City," Lorise said. "I came there to honor her wishes, but I think she would have felt the same way as you.” She rested her elbows on the table and locked eyes with Nim, staring intently, squnting a bit. “You know, you remind me a lot of her, my little sister.”

The words took Nim by surprise. She cocked her head, her eyes growing wide. “A murderous wood elf too, was she? I didn't realize it was heritable.”

“No,” Lorise laughed, “at least not to my knowledge. She was the most loveable Bosmer you could have hoped to meet, but maybe I am biased. Quiet, but not shy. She knew when silence spoke louder than words, but when she spoke, she did with such conviction you would have believed the sky was purple if she said so. Everyone she met doted on her. She didn’t even have to try."

"Well I don't think that describes _me."_

Lorise ignored the playful comment.

"You even look like her," she said. "Same verdant eyes the color of the forest surrounding our family home in Valenwood. They're green and brown, just like the elms. And wild hair, though hers was more red, like the bark of Mahogany. Yours is like a tree lit aflame.”

Nim crossed an arm over her chest and scratched at her shoulder absently. “You speak as though she’s no longer with us.”

“Well, I don’t know where she is. I haven’t seen her in many years. I came to Cyrodiil hoping to find her. Wasn't able to in the end.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Nim said after a moment solemn silence passed. She offered a weak, yet genuine condolence.

Lorise shrugged, a smile softening her eyes. "So it goes."

They ate in comfortable stillness after that. Nim let her busy mind race as she processed the events of the night before and planned for the tasks of tomorrow. Eventually, her thoughts travelled back to that morning, to Antoinetta’s volatile reaction to what she thought was light-hearted conversation. Nim couldn’t understand what had caused such a sudden flare and felt thoroughly unsettled knowing that the Breton was upset with her. What had she said that struck a nerve? 

“What’s on your mind?” Lorise asked as she sliced into a wheel of goat cheese. “You’re less obvious than Antoinetta, but you’ve got wandering eyes.”

“I really shouldn’t bring it up," Nim sighed. "I don’t want to start any rumors.”

“Well you absolutely must tell me now," Lorise said with a mischievous little grin and a mouth half full of bread. "After everything I did for you last night, why it’s only fair.” 

After a moment of consideration, Nim gave her a crooked frown. “Alright, but you can’t tell anyone, please. I fear I’ve already upset Antoinetta enough.”

"Antoinetta?” 

"I... interrupted her last night. Walked in on something I shouldn't have."

"Oh?"

"That sounds terribly strange, doesn't it?" Nim said, and then shook her head. "But it didn't seem like such a big deal at the time. We were all a little drunk, and she didn't even seem that embarrassed by it, so when I brought it up today, I wasn't expecting her to get so upset."

"Ahh," Lorise said, as though suddenly everything made sense. The sparkling glint returned to her eyes. She leaned toward the center of the table and lowered her voice to a whisper. “So you saw them together, didn’t you, her and Lucien? Caught them in the act?”

Nim leaned forward too and gave a small nod. “How did you know?” she asked, voice hushed.

“I mean, it’s not exactly a groundbreaking discovery. I think everyone in the Sanctuary knows.”

“I just- I knew she doted on him, but Lucien looked rather uninterested all night. I didn’t think they were... an item. I made a joke about it today, and I think I may have offended her.”

“Hah!” Lorise chortled dismissively, much to Nim’s confusion. “An _it__em_! I’m not sure what he did to be worthy of such idolatry. She is so sweet on him that her teeth are bound to rot out.”

“Well they do make ivory replacements these days so I suppose it’s not the worst affliction one could have.”

“Was it up on the second floor of the house? That’s where I caught them last time.”

“Yes, it was actually. That rickety bed would have given anyone a splinter. I don't know how they can stand it, but... hang on. Why are these details important? We should respect her privacy. It was embarrassing enough that I walked in on her with Mathieu right next to me.”

“Hah!" Lorise cackled again. "Antoinetta lives for the voyeurism. She’s positively tickled pink I’m certain of it. Don’t worry about her, dear Sister. She’s got a quick temper, but she never stays mad for long.”

“Yeah? Maybe.” Nim sighed, her breath heavy with doubt. “I often get this feeling that she doesn’t much care for me. This is the second time she’s snapped at something I’ve said, and I don’t know, maybe I just don’t understand her.”

Lorise tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and slouched backwards. “Look, I love Antoinetta dearly and she really is a kind, sweet girl, but she’s dreadfully insecure. You’re both young and pretty and inspire Lucien’s appetite. You can imagine why she suddenly doesn’t feel very special anymore.”

Nim choked back on her grape and hacked up a few seeds into her palm. “His appetite?” she asked as she set the seeds down on the table and wiped her hand on her shirt. “Lucien must be twice my age. I do no such thing.”

“And when has that stopped a man before? Vicente is ten times my age.”

"I guess." Nim understood her point. Raminus, while younger than Lucien, was still a few years older than her, and it certainly hadn’t prevented her affection in the slightest.

Lorise continued on. "Your humility is admirable, but yet another reason for her to envy you.”

“I don’t think I understand how Lucien plays into this."

"Mhm."

"What?"

"If you want to make yourself blind, go ahead," Lorise said, holding out her hands. "But do tell me one thing."

Nim nodded, signaling for her to go on."

Lorise suppressed her growing grin by popping another grape into her mouth. “Did you see his… you know?"

“His what?”

"You know," Lorise teased and bounced her brows a few times. “Don’t act coy.”

“No, I don’t. And what are you doing with your eyebrows?”

“His...” she pointed both fingers toward her lap with a devilish smirk. "...pecker."

Nim feigned a gag and recoiled away from the table as she shook her head. “Stendarr have mercy upon you, Lorise. I did not.”

“Well then Stendarr has mercy upon you too. What if they were going at it fully leafless and in the buff? I’ve heard them before. It’s like a woodpecker drumming against the headboard. And Antoinetta’s screams, Gods, if you thought her laughter was shrill--”

Nim threw up her hands and pressed them against the sides of her face. “This is too much for me. I just wanted to help unpack groceries and eat lunch. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

And with that, Lorise’s cackle joined the chorus of Gorgon’s thunderous breathing, adding note after note to the cacophonous orchestra.

* * *

Nim was halfway up the ladder of the well exit when she heard Vicente call her name. She gazed up at the light seeping in through the iron grating with disheartened pining eyes. So close, yet so far away. She had been down in the basement for too long. A cool stream of air flowed down toward her, and she inhaled it deeply, filling her lungs as the footsteps behind her grew louder.

“Nimileth!” The man raced toward the broken stone and peered up at her with his pale, fretful eyes. “Are you leaving?”

“That was the intention,” she replied with a low sigh and stared up at the sliver of sun that peeked out over the brim of the well.

“We should have a talk first. I promise you it won’t be long.”

Nim leapt down from the rungs of the ladder and faced the Vampire. “Is this about what happened last night? I know I drank too much, and I think I puked in your room, so let me say I am deeply sorry. Whatever punishment or repayment you think is--”

“Is that all you remember from last night?” He asked, his eyes bent and searching hers. "You don't remember what happened before I found you?"

“Umm, I guess I had a lot fun, actually. Not the kind of fun I’m used, I’ll give you that. There’s a certain edge to drinking with a bunch of murderers that you just can’t get outside of the Sanctuary.” She offered Vicente a bright, toothy grin, hoping that he would be pleased with her uncharacteristically outgoing venture. To her disappointment, he met her with a small, fragile frown

“What about at the end of the night?”

“What about it?” Nim squinted, the concern in his voice lost on her. “I don’t remember much after you left to see Mathieu home.”

“You were speaking with Lucien. Do you remember that?”

“Yeah, vaguely.” She shrugged a shoulder and shifted the weight of her pack. “I think we were talking about fruit. Or maybe it was trees.”

His brows arched at her reply. “Trees? Are you sure?” 

“Well, he was being nosy and awfully dull and eventually I fell asleep, so I don’t imagine it was any more exciting than that.”

“Nim, listen close.” Vicente lowered his voice and peered around them at the sparsely occupied main hall. “I’m afraid it wasn't so innocent a conversation. Lucien has taken an interest in you that isn’t entirely professional.”

Nim rolled her eyes so hard they nearly popped out of her skull. “First Lorise and now you," she groaned. "I thought we had this discussion already.”

“Please let me finish. Come, let us speak in my quarters.”

Thoroughly irritated by the increasing amount of lost time in her day, Nim shuffled alongside the Executioner with a soured expression. She tried not to huff. It was a very difficult task. Vicente locked the door behind him as she took her seat at the small table in the center of the room.

Soon Vicente joined her. He interlocked his finger and rested them on the table, as he straightened his back, looking very severe. Nim raised her eyes to meet him, annoyed and growing increasingly perplexed by the persistence of his solemn expression.

“Okay, I’m all ears,” she drawled, slouching backward. The sarcasm thickened in her throat.

“Lucien is preying on you,” he stated bluntly. “When I came upon you last night, you were unconscious, and Lucien was trying to... kiss you. I think."

"Wh- what?"

"I wish I could say there was a shadow of doubt in my mind that his intentions were not as they appeared, but I cannot. He said he was going to do terrible things to you. You told me he had said that.”

Nim’s shoulders fell inch by inch. She stared, dumbstruck, at Vicente. “I said that?”

“You laughed about it actually. I don’t think you understood what he meant in your state. Lucien has a history of this kind of behavior. I’ve seen it several times over the years I have known him. Most recently with Antoinetta, and even Lorise. “

Nim's sluggish brain left her tongue-tied. “You have?”

He nodded grimly and she felt her face contort from a scowl to a grimace and then back to a bewildered pout.

“I’m so confused,” she mumbled out. “I saw him with Antoinetta last night. They were….” She took a deep breath and brushed her bangs over her ears, pressing her fingers to her temples as she shook her head. “Just what do you mean ‘this kind of behavior,’ and what does this have to do with me?”

“There is something you need to understand about our Speaker's nature. He is a predator, first and foremost. It is what makes him so deadly and so successful in his role within our organization. But it is the very essence of who he is, and this quality does not fade and evanesce when he takes off his robes. He is a ravenous man, always looking for weak prey. Young women with no home to run back to, broken, lost, and easily molded.”

“I am none of those things,” Nim hissed.

“I know that," he said, "but Lucien sees whatever he wants to."

Vicente tucked a stray lock of hair over his ear and rested his elbows on the table. His eyes softened, watching as Nim grew more and more rigid in her seat. She hadn't looked this uncomfortable around him since the day they met.

"Let me tell you a story about his last Silencer," he said. "Her name was Aventina Attius. Lucien recruited her when she was about your age.” Nim raised an eyebrow and Vicente paused to explain. “It’s not a rare thing at all for a young orphan to join our ranks. Yes, you’re hardly the first. Aventina came from a fragmented home, alcoholic father with a gambling problem, abusive mother. You know the sort. She murdered her own parents just to be free from them. When she accepted our invitation, Lucien showered her with affection and the poor thing, she thought she had found real love at last. She did anything to hold on to it, and so she did anything Lucien asked of her. If our Speaker said jump, Aventina said how high. It didn’t even need to be a contract. If Lucien asked her to, she’d kill on command without reason or remorse just so she could see his smile.

"But it wasn’t enough for Lucien. Nothing is ever enough for him. He continued to send her on contracts that no one in their rational mind would assign to her. Aventina was blood-crazed and enthusiastic but she was novice in her execution at best. She was returning from her contracts beaten and nearly incapacitated when Ocheeva and I begged Lucien to relinquish her from her role as Silencer. Yet each task he gave her was riskier and more twisted than the last. He told her that these were tests of her loyalty, and as long as he was there to kiss her wounds when she returned, she’d go out and kill for his pleasure again. Lucien knew she wasn’t skilled enough. He knew.”

Vicente set his jaw, and a small vein raised along the length of his temple. Nim had never seen him so angry before.

“Can you guess where Aventina is now?”

She held his icy glare, offering a tiny nod that was barely perceptible, even to Vicente's keen eye.

“She’s dead, Nimileth. Lucien smiled at her wake as though he never knew her.”

“But she was family. I didn’t think him capable of--“

“Of what? Of murder?” Vicente scoffed harshly, and Nim recoiled from the sting of his tone.

“I thought the tenets prevented us from hurting one another.”

“Lucien didn’t strike her down. He placed her at Sithis’ door. She entered willingly.”

“And Antoinetta?“ She asked, concern rising in her voice, and she wondered if this meant that she had begun to understand his warning.

“Antionetta is a lost cause, very much the same. Rescued from the sewer within an inch of her life by a handsome man with the promise of love and acceptance. She adores him. She wants to please him. His interest didn’t last longer than a few months, and I'm afraid she'll never know how lucky she is.”

“But I saw--“

“What you saw was Lucien sating his base needs. He knows that Antoinetta will always offer herself up to him. Like I said, Lucien is a predator. He lives for the hunt. When the chase is up and there’s no sport left in it, he grows bored. Why do you think he would so willingly throw Aventina away? Because she gave him everything. She gave him every part of herself until there was nothing left for Lucien to take.”

Nim was silent as she processed the horrific details of the Speaker’s affairs. Vicente sat stiff as a stone.

“And Lorise?" she asked "She’s nothing like you described. I can’t imagine her ever being interested in a man like Lucien.”

“No, Lorise was a novelty. She’s Grand Champion of the Arena, how could she not be? She already had a life outside of the Dark Brotherhood and in it she was an epitome of success. Unlike the other women Lucien had recruited, she didn’t need him to put any pieces back together, and so he thought of her like she was a prized possession he could win over. Like a trophy.

"But none of his tricks worked on her, his gifts and advances all rejected. Her utter disinterest drove him mad. Overtime, the two of us grew close, eventually romantically so. He's an envious man, our Speaker. You wouldn't think so unless you saw it first hand, and it doesn't happen often. I think our relationship pushed Lucien over the edge of his obsession. Lorise told me that Lucien had followed her home on numerous occasions. One evening, he stole into her house and- well Lorise never explicitly stated as such, but I think he made an attempt to force himself onto her.”

“What did you do when you found out?" Nim's voice cracked and she cleared her throat quickly.

“I thought I was going to kill him, I was so enraged. I met him at his home and threatened to invoke the Wrath of Sithis if he ever laid hands on her again. He never admitted to it, but as far as I know, he's never come near her again."

They didn’t speak for some time. Nim’s shoulders had stiffened significantly as the quiet between them progressed. She clutched them in her spindly arms, crossed over her chest and squeezing tightly.

Dim light from the overhanging brazier bounced off her widened, glazed eyes. Vicente watched it dance.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he began, his voice breathy and low. “I only-“

“I’m not scared,” she insisted.

He nodded. “I only mean to let you know what he’s capable of. I saw hunger in his eyes last night. He’s thinking of you, Nim. In horrible ways.”

“Well…” she said, shrugging a shoulder, looking lost. “What do I do about it, Vicente? I’m not interested in him, and I don’t see how I’ll be spending much more time with him in the future.”

“We can never be sure what awaits you.”

And as Nim made to take her leave, Vicente bit his tongue and did not mention his conversation with Lorise, how she suspected Lucien wished to make Nim his Silencer. If it was true, it would only be a short matter of time. Vicente was not ready to accept that fate.


	17. Bloodcrusted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a long chapter that I could have split in two but meh, I have other plans for the next one. Finally a bit of action. And Raminus Polus, of course, because I love that nerd so much, I can't help it :p

**Chapter 17: Bloodcrusted**

The contract itched to be completed. Nim felt the weight of it in her pack. Silly, as it was just a rumpled paper onto which Roderick’s death wish had been scribbled, but still it sat there taking up space and bearing down on her like a millstone. She had dragged her feet on it for a week already, occupied by that foolish party and delayed by the consequences of her bad choices. Soon. Soon she'd have it off her back.

The clear sky and light breeze had lightened her mood after the burdensome discussion with Vicente. She knew she should be more alarmed than she currently found herself, but she wondered – why hadn’t Lorise said anything to her if it really was as grave a situation as Vicente had made it out to be? Nim did her best to keep from dredging up his words and the acrid taste they left at the back of her throat.

She was halfway to the Red Ring road when she stopped, heart falling into her stomach, at the realization that she had forgot to offer prayer at the Chapel of Arkay before leaving Cheydinhal. It was the first Sundas mass she had missed in two years. The pause of guilt faded quickly upon admitting that she did not wish to commune with the Gods today anyway, not after spending a week in a dungeon full of assassins. Not after laughing with them, drinking with them, and certainly not after dreaming of them so… vividly.

Kicking a stone down the unmaintained cobblestone path, Nim proceeded away from the city. Prayer was a tortuous routine for her and always ended in tears. An expression of repentance here, a plea for forgiveness there, and really, she was glad she forgot to attend Sundas mass because what good was another choked sob going to do when she already knew someone would end up dead at her hands by the end of the week?

The further she travelled south along the Red Ring Road, the less she thought of the Sanctuary and even the upcoming contract for Fort Sutch. Across the waterway, the White Gold Tower stood proudly above green copper-stained roofs and the glittering surface of Lake Rumare. She paused as she crossed the East Bridge spanning the Upper Niben and stared toward the purple lights glowing from within the walls of the Arcane University. With the chipper calls and distant trills of the grosbeaks filling the cloudless air around her, she thought of Raminus sitting in the lobby of the Archmage’s tower and grimaced.

The signposts at the intersection ahead pointed in four directions and Nim turned toward the West Weald, her mind swimming with worries of all the research and studies she was behind on back in Anvil. She ought to take a break, she told herself, from these murders and the Dark Brotherhood. There was still so much required of her as a member of the Mages Guild, and though she was still a Warlock in good-standing, she felt as though she were sinking.

By the time she reached the Gold road, the only thing on her mind was Skingrad and the impatience in Traven’s eyes as he informed her of Count Hassildor’s message. She wondered why the Count had requested her specifically for the meeting when they didn’t have a particularly cordial interaction the first time they had spoken. Quid pro Quo seemed to be the way the Mages Guild operated, seemingly capable of only transactional affairs. If Nim had to put money on it, she’d guess that, since Hassildor already knew she was a lackey for the Council, he must have some dirty laundry that he needed her to take care of in exchange for this _vital_ information.

* * *

Informed of Nimileth’s arrival into Skingrad, Janus Hassildor waited in his study with a steaming pot of jasmine tea and two empty cups. He sat with one leg crossed over the other and twisted the gold band around his left ring finger as he gazed through the window and watched the sun’s descent beyond the Colovian Highlands.

While he had seen the Bosmer put up an impressive and successful fight against three necromancers, he remembered little else of her beyond her wary glares and sharp tongue. Reports from his trusted informants had notified him of her rapid advancement within the guild. Warlock now, wasn’t it? And he found it most curious indeed. It was unlike the Council to promote young mages of unknown pedigree so swiftly, and Janus couldn’t help but wonder if they were being a bit too hasty with this recruit. Were they really in such dire need of replacements? He knew Irlav Jarol was getting up in his years, but surely the Imperial still had a good ten years left. Ah to be old and mortal. He did not mourn that aspect of his humanity.

Finally, his keen senses detected movement along the hall leading to his private study. The door knob turned and Nim walked in led by Hal-Liurz who gave a small nod to the Count before leaving them alone in the warmly lit room. Though Janus clearly recognized the woman in front of him from their first meeting, she looked remarkably unlike the image in his head. Her hair was much longer than the messy crop that wisped around her shoulders before, and her brown ochre skin just a shade darker than he remembered. Dressed in tight leggings and a short-sleeved tunic that cinched around her waist, he saw that she had put on some much needed muscle mass ,and he nodded. Though she was hardly formidable in stature, it relieved him to know that she was stronger than the gangly creature he held in memory. and now he needn’t worry that she’d snap under a strong breeze.

“Not who you were expecting?” Nim asked, noticing how he observed her. She held her arms out to her side and spun slowly in a circle so he could scrutinize a new angle. “Maybe you’d recognize me better if I were wearing Mercator’s charred remains.”

Janus stiffened at the name of his old steward and forced a smile. “Nimileth, I see you are as refined and gracious as the night we met.”

“And we meet again, Count Hassildor. I never thought I’d have this honor.” Even though she knew she ought to curtsey in the presence of a Count, Nim bowed deep and theatrically which drew a heavy sigh from the vampire. She grinned smugly to herself. If he wanted to see her boorish mannerisms, she’d give him exactly that.

“Though in different circumstances,” Janus replied. “I fear this time you may find the results no more to your liking than the last. Less so, perhaps. The information I have for your guild will not be met with smiles and hand-shakes, I fear. Please join me.” He stood, bowing his head, and motioned to the cushioned seat across from him. “Tea?”

Nim's smile fell a little crooked as the Count spoke and she stifled it with a dry swallow. Nodding in response to his question, she found her place on the plush sofa and plopped her pack down on the lavish rug below. She crossed her legs and Janus stared briefly at the mud-caked underside of her boots. Pouring out the tea, he watched as half of a dried leaf twirled from the sole of her shoe down to its resting place on the rug below.

“I take it you don’t hold many appointments with nobility,” he said with a slight smirk at the corner of his mouth as he swirled a cube of sugar into his tea.

“Do I look like a diplomat to you?” Nim matched his smile and then quickly shook her head when she saw the Count’s lips part to reply. “Don’t answer that question. I’ve been told that you have information of value to the Mages Guild, and I am here at your request.”

“Yes, thank you for coming so promptly.” His voiced dripped with insincerity and Nim forced herself to contain her eyeroll. She had come two days after receiving word from Traven. _Nobility_, she scoffed to herself. _Not everyone waits on them hand and foot._

“It is a minor situation, I assure you,” Janus continued. “but neither I nor my guards can become directly involved.”

“If it is so minor, why am I here?” She didn’t mean for the question to sound so derisive as it left her lips. Janus squinted his red eyes and took a sip from his cup.

“You are here precisely because it is so minor,” he replied curtly. “I have called you here because from our previous encounter, I believe you can be trusted. Consider the implications of that, as you handle this small matter for me.”

His insistence on downplaying whatever task he had in mind assured Nim that it wasn’t as insignificant a matter as he was letting on. She drank her tea silently as he continued.

“A short distance east of this castle is a cave known as Bloodcrust Cavern. A nest of vampires have taken residence there. They are a threat to this town and must be eliminated.”

Janus paused, half expecting Nim to make some half-witted comment that connected this vampire clan to himself. Her silence left him disappointed as he was rather looking forward to discussing his true opinion of such mindless predatory animals. Nim arched a brow at his sudden break and sipped loudly.

“Their presence has drawn the attention of a group of vampire hunters led by a wood elf name Eridor. He’s quite good, from what I hear. You can see how this is unfavorable given my condition.”

“And so these vampire hunters, you want them gone too.”

The count nodded.

“Dead?” she asked, dreading his reply.

“The decision is yours. Kill them, run them out of town.” Janus shook his head. “It matters not to me, only that they are gone.”

“Well, then I see no reason to kill them.”

“Suit yourself. I will expect you back promptly.”

Nim knew the day ahead would be long and bloodied, and so she took the brief moment of calm to enjoy her tea before getting back to work. Neither of them spoke again that evening, and if Janus took problem with her extended presence as she poured herself another cup of tea, he didn’t say so.

* * *

The sky was deep blue and star-speckled when Nim concluded her meeting and returned to Skingrad through the east gate. She knew this ‘Eridor’ character could only be staying in one of two places within the city, and due to pure proximity to the Two Sisters Lodge, she decided to investigate there first. As she rounded the pathway leading toward southwestern Skingrad, she spied two men, a bosmer and a nord, talking in low voices on the steps of the Chapel of Julianos. Nim pressed her back up against the side of the great church and crept closer, inch by inch, until she could make out what they were saying.

“No news from Vontus?” The Nord asked. “He’s out in the High Pasture. I’d have imagined he’d be seeing most of the action, keeping track of who enters and leaves the city.”

Before she could pick up on the Bosmer’s reply, the sound of crunching gravel travelling from behind the chapel alerted Nim to the presence of another lurking individual.

“You!” A shrill voice called out as its owner ran toward her. Nim spun around with one hand on the hilt of her ebony dagger and the other slamming against the throat of the man who had crept upon her with her back turned. She sighed heavily and released her grip on the prowler when she recognized the deep widow-peak and receding hairline framing Glarthir’s wild, manic eyes. He was the last wood elf she wanted to see at this moment.

“I knew you’d finally come,” he whispered with deranged excitment. “Are you sure you weren’t followed?”

“Glarthir, for the third time. I don’t know you, and I don’t care to know you.”

Her rejection did little to stop the man’s incessant rambling as he began to detail his suspicions regarding one of his neighbor’s, Bernadette Peneles. The first time she had set foot in Skingrad, the strange, paranoid Bosmer had approached her with the same request. At the time, she was so broke and desperate that she nearly took him up on his offer to stalk the citizens of Skingrad in exchange for a bit of gold. Thankfully, she had good enough sense to trust her gut reaction, because yes, the man was a complete nut.

Nim cast a detect life spell and let Glarthir continue yammering in her ear, though her eyes followed the flickering auras of the two men who were chatting just around the corner. Soon they began to walk down toward the residential district. Shrugging him off, Nim cast an invisibility spell to keep Glarthir from following her and traced the steps of the suspected vampire hunters to the Two Sisters Lodge. 

She entered a few minutes behind them and peered over the ground floor landing to find the Nord and Bosmer had joined two other men on the tavern floor below. The four of them sat around a circular table sharing a late dinner meal in hushed voices. They certainly weren’t trying to remain inconspicuous if they wandered about town bearing weapons, and they weren’t exactly discrete in their very public meetings.

Nim hoped they were as competent as Janus had made them sound since there was no chance in oblivion that she’d attempt to take out the nearby vampire clan on her own. She had only fought two vampires before, Jakben Earl of Imbel and Vicente. Though she managed to kill Jakben, it had not been an effortless fight in the slightest, and she was still unconvinced that Vicente wasn’t going easy on her in their spars. Janus had referred to Bloodcrust Cavern as a _nest_. She had no idea how many that entailed, but it was certainly bound to be more than two

Nim deliberated on the hunters raggedy appearance during her slow descent along the staircase. The men were dressed in threadbare clothing and carried equally worn swords at their sides, not at all what she had expected from supposedly seasoned and skillful fighters. She expected them to be in armor at the very least, even if not in mint condition, but it hardly surprised her to find that vampire hunting was not a profitable enterprise. Still, she had seen thieves dressed more appropriately for battle than this lot and hoped they were simply relaxing in a spare set of lounge wear after a long day of scouting.

She approached the table and cleared her throat. “Excuse me,” she called out, raising her voice above the din of the busy tavern. “I hear you’re a band of hunters looking for a nearby nest. I think I have something that may pique your interest.”

The vampire hunters raised their brows, and Nim placed a hand on her hip, striking a stance that she hoped relayed that she meant business.

Eridor spun around in his seat to face her. “Citizen, we’re only interested in one thing and that’s where the vampires are hiding. If you have seen anything unusual, particularly anything implying the presence of the undead here in town, please report it at once.”

“I know where they are hiding out, and I will tell you if you let me come with you.”

“Little thing like you?” Eridor asked with heavy surprise in his widened eyes. "What could you possibly offer professionals like us?”

Nim squinted at the Bosmer who stood at the exact same height as she did and bit her tongue. “You may call me Nimileth, thank you. I’m trained in destruction and can sling some powerful flame spells. I set them ablaze and you do the rest, how about it?”

“Hmm,” he hummed to himself and stroked the sparse hairs of his chin. “and what will you be wanting from it? We’re here to keep the citizenry safe from this undead menace, and I’m afraid we can’t offer any compensation for information.”

“I don’t want gold. I want their dust.” Nim watched as the other men broke into quiet chatter, slight disgust making itself evident by the pinch of their faces. She shifted her weight onto her other foot, side eyeing them with her own wrinkled nose. “It’s a rare ingredient to come by in alchemical shops, you know. Let’s meet tomorrow and I’ll lead you to their nest. Do we have a deal?”

“Fine, Nimileth. My men and I will prepare for the strike. Let’s regroup at dawn. Six o’clock sharp at the West Gate.”

She agreed and then left for the bar to rent a room. Worry found her more easily than sleep, knowing that the worst was still to come.

* * *

Mist rolled over Nim’s face as she emerged from Bloodcrust Cavern. It dampened her skin and her leather armor, still wet with a coating of blood. She looked up with shielded eyes to greet the ascending sun. Magnus was vaguely visible through the clouds, shedding a pale light that broke through the thick morning clouds. Dull rays reached down to Nirn, and alone and weary, Nim headed for the hill toward Castle Skingrad.

The morning had been a disaster.

She had suspected the vampire hunters were in far over their heads when she first met them, and her suspicions had only grown stronger when she found them equally under-equipped for battle as the night before. Nim was no warrior herself but she had changed into a set of armor that had been enchanted to protect and aid her in battle, and she wouldn’t dare attempt to fight a vampire without augmented weapons. Despite her reservations, she wanted to trust that Eridor and his men knew the dangers they were facing, and so she led on towards the cavern. With each step forward, the dread bore deeper and deeper into her stomach.

As soon as they entered the cave, Nim knew they would be detected. Even if the hunters didn’t move like orc berserkers, the starved vampires in the chamber up ahead were at such an advanced state of their disease that mortal blood was easily detectable from where they stood several meters away. The hunters had charged in with no formation, and Nim followed behind in panic, casting a flurry of arrows and fireballs into the attacking figures as she hung to the back walls.

But they were thoroughly outnumbered and the further they progressed into the tunnel, the weaker the team grew. The vampires were crazed by bloodlust and stronger than even Nim had expected. Busy fending off an attacker with her shortsword, she watched helplessly from the periphery as Vontus was dragged to the ground by three others. The team of hunters rushed to his rescue, but after picking off the assailants they found only a butchered scene that vaguely resembled the Imperial they knew in life. Vontus, with his neck torn open and arms ripped clean from their sockets, was the first to fall. Shamar was next, and by the time they ended the loop through the cave only Nim stood standing, bloody and shaken.

Still in the shock of battle, she had to gather dust slowly from the scattered piles of fallen vampires. She coughed hoarsely, retching bile into her mouth as she knelt over the dismembered limbs of the hunters that littered cavern floor. Eventually the stench of blood had overwhelmed her, and she rushed out into the West Weald trembling and choking for clean breath.

Dragging her body back through the mist toward Castle Skingrad, Nim thought nothing of her torn armor and bloodied wounds. She didn’t think of Eridor or chastise his misguided sense of civic duty. She didn’t think of his friends and their mutilated corpses being picked clean by rats. She watched the morning robins pull forth worms as they hopped to and fro across the moist soil, and she thought of nothing but blissful void.

* * *

Bothiel stood alone in foyer of the Arch-Mage's tower, leaning against the counter with her mug of tea as she sorted through the afternoon mail. Without warning, the front door was yanked open, and the rush of air sent the letters in her hand flying across the lobby. She struggled to catch them, chasing after the loose leaves of paper as they floated down to the floor.

Through the shower of letters, Nim entered with loud, frantic stomps, her hair stringy with sweat and plastered against the side of her face. The wide grin with which Bothiel greeted her fell immediately upon spying her horrified expression.

“Where is Traven?” Nim asked, her voice a series of rapid breaths.

“The Council is in session,” Bothiel replied. “What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Without hesitating, Nim rushed across the room and stepped onto the teleportation pad, rising to the council chambers in a fraction of a second.

Janus had not been over-exaggerating in the slightest when he spoke of grave news. Mannimarco had returned. Mannimarco, the necromancer who conspired to unleash Molag Bal upon the plane of Nirn. The one responsible for the death of Vanus Galerion. And now, he had returned to Cyrodiil with the Cult of the Black Worm. She needed to see Hannibal Traven immediately.

When she arrived on the other side of the teleporter, she found all five members of the Council seated around a circular wooden table in deep discussion. Tar-meena was the first to notice her from the opposite side of the room and met her with a concerned look, brow ridges furrowed.

“Nimileth, you cannot be in here,” she stated, drawing everyone’s attention to the small elf. Nim mustered all of the strength left in her tired body to avoid meeting Raminus’ gaze, and still, she failed miserably. He looked just as perplexed as everyone else in the room aside from the Arch-mage who was staring calmly at Nim as he examined the dried patches of blood on her armor.

“It’s alright, Tar-meena,” Traven said with a nod, rising from his chair and gesturing for Nim to approach. He stood with his hands clasped his hands in front of him and looked to her with soft, brown eyes that hid the eagerness behind them. “What news from Count Hassildor?”

Nim peeled her eyes away from Raminus and turned toward the older Breton. “Arch-mage, Mannimarco is here in Cyrodiil.”

“What?” His cool expression fell for but a moment, and Nim could just make out the flickering worry in the fleeting emotion. It was not the reply that she was hoping for.

Like a group of gossiping school children, hushed whispers broke out around the table.

“Is that possible?” She heard Irlav ask to Caranya. The Altmer was staring at Nim with a fiercely intense curiosity, then quickly averted her gaze when the young mage looked over to her.

“Quiet, please,” Traven asked of the other Council members. “This is grave news indeed. I had, perhaps foolishly, believed that Necromancy was all but stamped out in Cyrodiil.”

“It seems you couldn't have been more mistaken,” Nim said sharply, the venom drawing a small gasp from Tar-Meena. “How much more proof will you need before you choose to take action? How many more like Mucianus? How many more bodies will need to be piled up? Count Hassildor says Mannimarco is in northern Cyrodiil and that he is only growing in numbers. Many of our members have defected to his side already, and I believe there are many more still hiding amongst us.”

Irlav slapped his palm against the table, the sound loud and jarring. Nim nearly jumped. “Are you accusing your colleagues of betraying the Guild?” He asked, lips twisting into a contemptuous sneer.

Nim’s face harshened into a scowl as she turned to address him. “Why are you looking at me as though I am crazy, Irlav?” While she respected him as a researcher, she had been thoroughly disgusted with his leadership on the Council, especially after the incident at Nenyond Twyll. How was it that everyone was so short-sighted, so willing to bury their heads in the sand? “We already know about Falcar. The Necromancer’s at Nenyond Twyll were expecting the battlemages to come for Mucianus, and expecting me specifically. They referred to me as 'Traven's pet.' How would they come to possess that knowledge? It wouldn’t surprise me if there was someone in this very room--”

“Nimileth!” Raminus erupted, standing up from his seat so swiftly that he toppled his chair over behind him. He had seen her this way once before, irate at the guild management and spouting insults like they were the only words she knew, but to suspect that a member of the Council was a traitor! Her quick temper with the other Council members already left her toeing a thin line, and he did not want to see how they would react to her if they concluded that she had crossed it.

Nim shriveled at his sudden outburst, never having heard the Master Wizard raise his voice so sternly, but the initial embarrassment quickly turned to anger when she met Traven’s unwavering, demure smile. His calm demeanor only further boiled her blood, and she clenched her fists tightly at her sides to refrain from letting it froth.

“What will we do now, Archmage?” she asked. “Our window to act grows smaller every day. Mucianus must have provided some information that could be of use to rooting out the center of the Worm Cult. If you allow me to review his reports--“

“Is that wise, Archmage?” Caranya interrupted with a pout of concern that Nim couldn’t help but find forced. “Warlock Nimileth has been an invaluable asset to the guild but to trust her with such classified material… perhaps we ought to discuss this amongst ourselves first.”

“I will vouch for Nimileth’s loyalty to the guild,” Raminus conceded before anyone else had the opportunity to second Caranya’s suggestion.

Nim met him with a grateful nod. “So tell me what our next steps are," she said. "I will see to them. I will make sure that we-“

“You speak out of turn, Nimileth,” Irlav cut in, wagging a finger dismissively in the Bosmer’s direction. “There is no ‘_we’_ seeing how you are not part of our deliberation. You must trust in the guidance of the Council instead of making demands and rash accusations. When we have need for your services again, we will send for it.”

“But I’ve been a part of this investigation since the beginning,” Nim asserted, genuine confusion on her face as she was met with looks of disapproval and discomfort from everyone seated in the room.

Traven walked back to the table and picked up Raminus’ seat before returning to his own. “I shall need to consult with the Council as to how to proceed with this situation,” he said and rested his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers in front of him. Nim felt her heart hammering against her sternum as she watched him turn to her with a poised smile. “Thank you for your information, Nimileth. It may save many lives in the days to come.“

For a brief second, Nim stared nonplussed. Eyes wide. Mouth dry. As though she had just been slapped across the face. The sting set in quickly. Taking this as her dismissal, she fled the Council chamber and ran for the lobby exit past a very confused Bothiel who was still picking letters up off the floor. She burst out the door and scurried down the stone steps to the gate leading back to the City Isle. Behind her, she heard the lobby door fling open and crash against the stone wall, the hinges rattling as it swung back and forth in its rusted frame.

“Nimileth!”

She heard a man’s voice calling to her and looked over her shoulder to see Raminus rushing after her. She quickened her pace, pulling farther away from him as she approached the tall university gate. She motioned for the guards to open it.

Only when Raminus reached out and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder did she turn around to face him.

“Were you running away from me?” he asked, bending slightly at the waist as he caught his breath.

“No," she spat, "I was walking briskly.”

“Nim, I didn’t mean to yell at you back there. I’m sorry. I let my emotions get the better of me, but you can’t throw such accusations around lightly. You must understand the reaction those words incite.”

“Don’t-” she started, knocking his arm off her shoulder with a firm shrug. She paused to regain her composure and prevent herself from launching into another purposeless harangue. “The Council couldn’t have been clearer - I ought to learn my place. I acted like an indignant child, okay? I know that I behaved poorly. You didn’t need to come out here just to scold me again.”

“We’re not trying to be difficult,” Raminus sighed, frustration evident in his face. “We are, in fact, working to stop the spread of necromancy. It’s not a simple feat. You must believe that we are doing everything within our means.“

Her silent reply, eyes lowered and refusing to meet his, told him that she did not.

“Would it... would it really trouble you to speak less aggressively with the Council, for the sake of discourse if nothing else? You’re too… unfiltered when you’re angry, and these kinds of discussions require a finesse that I know you are capable of. The Council may be more receptive to less hostile confrontation.”

Nim placed her hand over her forehead and looked up at the afternoon sky with a defeated groan.

“Would they listen, Raminus? You know that I’m only trying to do what is right. I’m tired of feeling like my opinions are unwanted because I’m not one of them. If the Council is looking for someone to kiss their feet, Traven shouldn’t be asking for my help. You can tell him that at your next meeting.”

She turned away toward the now open gate, but a strong grip on her wrist kept her from walking any further.

“I’m just trying to help you, Nim.”

His hand lingered there, encircling her small wrist, and when he released her, he met her with tired, sympathetic eyes. She felt so small and ashamed beneath them.

“I know, Raminus. I know.” And she knew in her heart that he only meant well. He was just as bound by the will of the Council as she was. “I’m scared," she told him. "I know more people are going to die. The guild is the only good thing in my life right now, and I’m watching it self-destruct. You don’t understand what that’s like, to have nothing to cling to.”

Raminus watched dolefully as her shoulders fell, and a knot tightened in his belly. Even if the Council did not fully appreciate her enthusiasm, he knew that she deserved more. He couldn’t bear to see her like this, wilting beneath his gaze as though wrong for caring so strongly. Hie placed a hand on her shoulder, and gestured toward the open gate. She followed obediently as he led her out into the City Isle.

A few meters down the bridge, Raminus stopped and looked over her Nim’s shoulder to see if anyone was watching them. When the gate closed again, he leaned in closer, a grim expression growing on his face.

“Listen, I’ve been communicating with a member of the Bruma Mage’s guild, Volanaro. Do you know him?”

Nim nodded. "I met him when I was asking Jeanne for a recommendation. He helped me... acquire it. Him and J'skar. They're friends of mine."

“He has expressed concern regarding the safety of the members up in Bruma, and at first I thought it was only a disagreement with the leadership. I know Jeanne is… less skilled than most chapter leaders and many of her constituents have expressed frustration over this. However, Volanaro has reason to believe there has been increased necromancer activity in northern Cyrodiil.”

Nim’s ears perked up immediately. “That would be consistent with what we learned from the Count,” she said. “What kind of activity did he mention?”

“Disturbed grave sites, reports from the city guard of charred and dismembered corpses found in the surrounding wilderness. Volanaro seems to think that someone may be watching the guild as well. He never seemed like the paranoid type to me, so I have no reason to disregard his suspicions.”

“No, Volanaro is many things, but he is level-headed. What would you have me do?”

“I would appreciate it if you checked in with him. He must have valuable insight that could help you uncover a nest of necromancers in the Jerall Mountains. Maybe this could guide us to Mannimarco. It’s the only lead I have to offer you, I’m afraid.”

Nim’s heart leapt at the new instruction, and she breathed a heavy sigh of relief to know that not everyone on the Council was willing to sit idle.

“This is exactly what we need, to be proactive,” she whispered back to him, and he could tell by the way she chewed her lower lip that she was doing everything in her power to keep from grinning. “Does anyone else on the Council know about his reports?”

“Yes, however they’ve chosen not to take any action on them yet.” And this time, Raminus didn’t bother to hide the disappointment in his sigh.

“I can’t thank you enough for this chance to keep working. I’ll make my way to Bruma in a few days time. I just have business in Anvil that I’m behind on.”

Despite Nim’s cheery turn of expression, Raminus’ face soured and he hung his head briefly before meeting her with a soft shake.

“I shouldn’t be giving you assignments like this without consulting them,” he lamented. “If you happen to find yourself in danger, it would be entirely my fault for placing you there.”

“No, Raminus. I’ll take responsibility for whatever comes out of my investigation. I’ll say that I’m acting alone.”

“I don’t want you to say that.”

He faltered before stepping closer and placing his other hand on her shoulder. She tensed briefly beneath his palm and he felt a rush of guilt as he remembered the last conversation they had alone together. How he wished he could turn back time to that speechless daze, tell her that not a day passed where he didn’t think of her, worry for her, yearn for her. But this was hardly the time for passion or hoping for second chances, not when the darkest threat to the Mages Guild loomed in the horizon. Raminus cleared his throat.

“You’re never acting alone," he said. "These are going to be dark times for us, for the whole guild, and I am going to be here whenever you need me to be. Through hellfire if that is what is you require.”

Nim looked up at him with a crooked grin and a heavy heart. Gods, he made it so difficult for her to move on, and even though she knew his kindness was not exclusive to her, sometimes it was too easy to pretend it was.

“Through Oblivion?” she asked, gnawing on her bottom lip. 

Raminus nodded, curled his fingers around her shoulder and resisted the urge to lean in even closer.

“Through Oblivion and back, if I must.”


	18. Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some adult themes toward the end of this chapter, mmkay. It is nothing graphic but read at your own discretion.

**Chapter 18: Ghosts**

It was an average Morndas evening at the Bloated Float. Ormil tended the bar as the warehouse workers trickled in from their afternoon shifts, and like most Morndas evenings, Amusei and Methredhel sat nestled in the corner as they shared an early dinner and recounted the details of their weekend excursions. Nim entered the inn after leaving the University grounds and found the pair right where she expected them to be. The two thieves greeted their dear friend with open arms and the trio quickly fell into their normal routine of sharing adventures and gossiping as though Nim had never left the Waterfront at all.

After catching up on the local news and being assured that everyone in the Thieves Guild was safe and in good health, Nim caught her friends up on the erratic past months on her life following the purchase of her home in Anvil. Of course, she avoided mentioning her time with the Dark Brotherhood and remained very vague when it came to specifics of her frustration with the Council. Methredhel nodded enthusiastically, confirming that _yes, Irlav Jarol is indeed a useless netch fart_ despite never having met the man before. Even though Nim had a niggling suspicion that Raminus would have agreed with her were he not so honor bound to his fellow Council members, it felt good to be validated for once.

The young Bosmer sighed, knowing that she could only stay for a one round before she needed to get back on the road, but she would welcome the delay if it meant she could steep in these brief moments of friendly faces and warm embraces for just a few minutes longer. Despite finding herself in the frequent company of her fellow assassins while in the Sanctuary, she couldn't fight the growing loneliness that beat in her chest like a hollow drum.

“You know what you need,” Methredhel slurred, popping off the top of her third beer. She turned to Nim, who had just finished outlining her troubles in paradise, and waved her finger erratically before the elf’s face. “You need a good lay.”

Nim choked mid-swallow and sent a spritz of her mead flying across the table in a desperate attempt to keep her drink in her mouth. Dabbing at the corner of her lips with her shirt, she cleared her throat. “A salacious suggestion,” she said. “I shouldn’t have expected any less from you.”

“Oh, and since when have you been so prim and proper, huh? Check it out Amusei." Methredhel motioned toward the Argonian across their small table with a nod of her head. “Nim buys a house and suddenly she’s Chancellor fucking Ocato.”

The circle of friends erupted into loud, raucous laughter, heaving before any of them could regain enough breath to speak again. Nim took a long sip and smiled as she eyed her fellow thieves with warm nostalgia flooding her veins. It had been such a long time since they all got together over Morndas drinks in their old haunt, and she couldn’t leave for Anvil without at least saying hello.

Methredhel turned to the smaller elf with as serious a look as she could muster with her rosy cheeks and drunk, lidded eyes. “I mean it, Nim. You’ve been on about this wizard for, like, a year.”

“It’s not been year. Don’t exaggerate.”

“Yeah, how long has it been then? I feel like I’ve been hearing about him since they let you into that university. _Look at this necklace Raminus gave me! Raminus showed me how to walk on water today! Oh, don’t you think Raminus has the twinkliest green eyes? Raminus-_”

“Oh, piss on a mudcrab. I do not sound like that!” Nim shouted. She dipped her finger into her drink and flicked the droplets at the older Bosmer. Though she doubted any fellow mages frequented the tavern on the Waterfront, she didn’t appreciate hearing Methredhel put her business on blast.

“To be fair,” Amusei began with a slight cock of his head. “It’s not a bad impression.”

“Look, you’ve got to get it out of your system. Do as I do. When you’re feeling lonely and broken hearted, go find some hot bloke and hop on his—f“

“Don’t be silly,” Nim cut her off, waving her hand dismissively through the air. "I’m not broken hearted. I’m just… I'm just stressed out.”

“Well, you know what’s a good remedy for stress? Finding a hot bloke and—“

“Methredhel, not everyone operates on such a visceral plane.”

“They do, they just pretend they don’t for the sake of propriety. The world would be a better place if everyone took a roll in the hay more often and blew off some steam. Man, woman, whichever way you swing. Have at it, I say.”

Amusei shook his head at the crass elf and tutted. “When I’m stressed, I go for a nice long run along Lake Rumare,” he said with a shrug, rapping his claws against the side of his bottle.

Mathredhel's rolled her eyes so hard they seemed to rattle in her skull. "Wow. How wholesome, Amusei. And how remarkably _boring."_

“It might do you well to get your heart pumping, Nim," Amusei continued on, ignoring the look of utter displeasure Methredhel was shooting his way. "It always clears my head. I bet the morning along the Gold Coast is nothing but sea breeze and wonderful, clean air.”

“Yeah, it’s remarkably fresh,” Nim agreed. “You’re right, everything seems to make my heart race these days. I need to find a good outlet for all this energy I've pent up inside.”

“You know what else gets your heart pumping, Nim?” Methredhel quirked her brow with a mischievous smirk.

“You’re relentless!” Nim cried out. “And I’ve missed the two of you so.”

Amusei placed his hand on her back and rubbed a small circle over her shoulder blade. “You really ought to stop by more often. Don’t forget about us when you’re out there flirting with the Arch-mage or whoever.”

Nim didn’t bother to correct him, and she smiled at the mental image of Traven’s reaction to one of her many awkward advances. “I promise I’ll try. I’m all over Cyrodiil these days, and speaking of, I’ve really got to run soon. Say hi to Armand for me when you see him, yeah?”

“I will. And Nim,” Methredhel called out as the small wood elf gathered up her pack and took out ten one-piece coins to cover the last round of drinks. She placed her hand over Nim’s and squeezed gently. “We’re all so proud of you.”

And to most, a couple of compliments from a pair of thieves who lived in shambled houses down on the Waterfront would have carried little weight if any. To Nim, they meant the world.

* * *

Nim spent the night in an almost-abandoned bandit camp just southeast of the marker on her map labeled _Fort Sutch._ It was well into the dark hours of morning when she found herself in County Kvatch and spied roaming marauders, illuminated amongst the barren hills off the road by the flame of their oil lamps. Her detection spell identified two individuals, and she picked them off with her bow before cautiously approaching. She dragged their bodies to the edge of the campsite and unceremoniously rolled them down the hill into the ravine below. There were mountain lions in these parts, and if they were hungry, it would be good to keep herself from becoming easy prey. Crawling under the pup tent, she found a few hours of rest before the morning sunlight spilled into her eyes, pouring in from the holes in the canvas sheet above her.

Wolfing down some stale bread and dried fruits by the handful, Nim made her way north. The ruins of the stone fort soon became visible amidst the amber landscape of swaying grasses and goldenrods. She cast her invisibility spell, and knowing she’d need to focus most of her magicka on maintaining it, Nim fished through her pack and slipped the Gray Cowl of Nocturnal over her head.

_At least it's useful for something, _she thought as the violet glow of life force materialized before her eyes. She wondered how Nocturnal felt, knowing her artefact was know used to facilitate murder. But murder was a form of stealing, was it not? And Nim, well Nim was one of the best damn thieves Cyrodiil had ever seen.

She slipped in through the main entrance and waited patiently in the shadows cast by the wall torches, watching the auras of the mercenaries traverse through the dimly lit passages.

As much as she hated to admit it, the job at Fort Sutch was indeed made for her. With the aid of her illusion, she proceeded through the fort like a snake in tall grass, undetected, nonexistent until the moment she struck.

* * *

Back at Anvil, Nim slept the rest of the day away and completely ruined any semblance of a routine sleeping pattern that she might have had before. She awoke before dawn the following day and by midmorning was already exhausted. Despite the weight of fatigue that clung to her, she chugged a pot of coffee in the kitchen of her manor before making her way down the street to the Mages Guild Hall. In addition to the lessons and study sessions on illusion magic that she partook in as part of her apprenticeship, she was to meet regularly with Carahil to hone her repertoire of spells.

Today the two had planned to engage in a spar, with Nim on the defensive and Carahil lobbing a series of aggressive illusion hexes against her wards. Her mysticism had always been weak and the eventful past few days and lack of deep, uninterrupted sleep that accompanied them certainly didn’t make her willpower any stronger. They practiced for several hours, each round ending when Carahil successfully broke through the ward to silence her.

The Bosmer slumped against the stone pillar in the center of the room, defeated and disappointed by her performance. Even when she coupled her dispel ward with an absorption or resistance charm, her mysticism was no match for Carahil’s assault.

“You look dreadful,” Carahil stated dryly. The Altmer’s candor was refreshing if not entirely requested. She handed Nim a cup of blackberry juice, a common ingredient in restoration potions, and Nim could taste the subtle bitterness of hyacinth nectar beneath it. As the potion worked its way through her system, she felt her magical reserves replenish. 

"Another round?" She asked. Carahil shook her head.

“You’re strength’s not quite here today. I know the Council has been asking extra of you, but you still have a responsibility to your own health. Get better sleep. Next week, same time, same practice.”

“Wards again?” Nim asked, a faint hint of panic rising in her voice. How she dreaded the impact of a strong silence spell, the feeling of lead in her veins as her willpower submitted to utter helplessness.

“You’re a Warlock now, Nimileth. There’s no point in me teaching you how to become a master illusionist if you can’t defend yourself against a silence spell.”

“I know,” she sighed. “It wasn’t meant as a protest.”

“Good, I’m not fond of groundless complaints.” Carahil nodded and walked to the bookshelf on the far side of the room. She returned with a leather-bound tome and offered it to the small elf. “Here. Have you read it?”

_Mysticism by Tetronius Lor,_ the cover read.

“Yes, of course.” Most mages had.

“Then read it again. Sleep with it under your pillow if you must. Next week, same time, same practice.” And with that, Carahil dismissed herself.

Defeated and drained, Nim left the guild hall. The midday sun was young and vibrant, and with her book tucked under her arm, she made her way to the Anvil Docks in search of a quite stretch of beach to sink her feet into and read. When it came to blowing off steam, the daunting book in her hands was far from her first choice of material to leisurely peruse, but at least the mild breeze that blew off the Abecean sea was encouraging of a calm afternoon.

She passed the shops that lined the harbor. The tavern, the bait shop, the stands of local catch. In passing Lelles Quality Merchandise, Nim found her eye drawn to a striking outfit in the display window. The mannequin wore a tight floor length dress, wine-colored velvet with a braided belt of gold fabric resting around its waist.

Nim paused before it. What if she bought it? What if she wore it out tonight? She looked down at the book in her hand, then back to the slinky gown. Contemplating Methredhel’s words from earlier in the week, she concluded that there was indeed more than one way to blow off steam.

* * *

For Mathieu Bellamont, it was an uneventful trip back to Anvil following the latest meeting with his Speaker. Alval Uvani was a bore, and he was rich, which meant he had no excuse to be as tiresome and dull as he was, yet Mathieu always found himself surprised by how little the Speaker could say in so many words. Mathieu had tried not to let his lassitude show as the Dunmer droned on and on about the purchase of his new winter retreat on the Oleander shores of Alinor. All this talk of white sand and crystal oceans. Of Altmer whores and sheets of silk. He'd had conversations of more substance with a mudcrab while five brandies deep.

Mathieu had half a mind to slip Alval some mead right then and there. Just a little trickle of honey into his drink, a swipe along the rim of his goblet and the Dunmer would find himself paralyzed, unable to speak another pompous, patronizing word for the rest of his days. The Speaker had really ought to be more careful of who he disclosed the nature of his allergies to. Mathieu had never seen Alval in such a state, but oh how he dreamt of it. Anaphylaxis, frothing at the mouth, bluer than on the day of the Dunmer's birth. He kept the image in his mind all the way back to Anvil. It was not so boring a walk then.

Arriving at the city gate just in time for dinner, Mathieu made his way to the Count’s Arms. The inn was busy for a Middas and the music was better than usual. Wilbur must have hired a new lute player to draw in the evening crowd. He made for his preferred table along the far wall and sighed faintly when he found it occupied. A young couple sat in conversation, the man waving his hands enthusiastically as he spoke and the woman looking terribly uninterested. She toyed with her hair, gaze directed away and out the window.

Mathieu took a seat at the bar and looked back over his shoulder at the couple, now slightly obscured by the musicians gathered in the center of the tavern. He was sure he recognized them from somewhere. Somewhere outside of Anvil. Craning his neck to get a better view, he watched as the woman tucked a strand of rust-brown hair behind her pointed ear and smiled at the man in front of her with all the enthusiasm of a weathered rock.

That was when he recognized her. Nimileth. Lucien’s new golden child. In all his time spent in Anvil, he had never seen her here before. Or maybe he had in passing, but only until a few days ago when they met could he have put her name to a face. There she sat, hardly thirty meters away in a tight maroon gown and with a suitor no less! How would her Speaker react if he found her here, scarlet paint on her lips and a stranger’s hand on her thigh? Mathieu smirked to himself, unable to contain the glee that rose to his gaunt cheeks. Lucien would squirm if he knew. Like a worm. How Mathieu longed to watch him writhe.

Eventually Nimileth made her way through the crowd and up the bar. He could hear her make her order, a glass of Surille 415. Wilbur popped the cork on the condition that she pay for the entire bottle, and she laughed as though she hadn’t agreed to this deal ten times already.

Mathieu zipped across the bar like an arrow, racing to the stool beside her as she turned her head away toward the proprietor.

“Were you really going to avoid me all night?” He asked playfully and smiled when he saw the Bosmer jump in her seat.

She seemed to take a moment before she recognized him, his sober appearance and lack of black robes unfamiliar. "Mathieu?" she said, as though testing him. Her eyes darted to the crowd surrounding them in sudden alarm. “I thought we weren’t supposed to speak… you know, in public.”

Mathieu shrugged and took a sip from his bottle of beer. “I don’t mind if you don't.”

Her shoulders fell, eased by his reply, and she leaned forward against the countertop on her elbows. “Well then, me either,” she said, smiling softly.

“I forgot that Lucien mentioned you lived here.” Which was a lie, of course. Mathieu knew exactly what house she had moved into when Lucien described their first meeting. No one knew of his residence in the Anvil lighthouse, and he intended to keep it that way. He realized that after they met, he would need to take extra measures to avoid the possibility of running into her. Upon seeing her tonight, he could have easily fled the Count’s Arms, but when he saw her approaching the bar with a relieved sigh escaping her lips, he simply couldn't resist.

“Lucien said that?” Nimileth asked as she accepted her goblet from Wilbur.

“In passing,” he nodded, drawing from her a stifled a groan. “But I’m sure you spend little time here, being as busy as you are.”

"Sure," she said and shrugged a shoulder. “And what brings you to the gold coast?”

“Business as usual.”

“Oh? Anyone I know?”

“I suppose you’ll find out soon enough, won’t you?”

She dropped her gaze to her wine glass, and Mathieu watched her nostrils flare as her stare grew deeper, darker. She shook her head, as though to clear it, and looked back to him again.

“You’re dressed like a commoner,” she stated. “It’s so strange. I thought you type lived in those robes.”

“It’s just for show. They’re hardly conspicuous when travelling. And what about you in that dress?” He took note of the Bosmer’s madeup appearance with a very obvious glance up and down. “Are you expecting someone?”

“Not exactly. Trying to get away from one currently.”

Mathieu arched a brow. “That seems counter productive.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not judging in any way."

"Judging me for what?"

"You look lovely," he said, at which Nim bit her lip and turned away, looking somewhat embarrassed. "If you’re seeking attention, I’m sure you’ll receive it.”

“That's not what I'm doing," she countered. "What? Can’t a girl dress up every now and then without—“

Mathieu quirked a brow, his smirk toothy, and suddenly Nim paused.

“Fuck it,” she said shaking her head and knocking back her drink. “What’s the point in being modest? I came out looking for some disappointment tonight. There I said it. I'm mortal and have base needs. Do you think terribly poor of me now?”

Mathieu stifled a laugh and shook his head gently. “No worse than before, but you’d have much better luck at the Flowing Bowl.”

“I know. I was going there next if, you know, I turned up empty handed here.” He watched in great amusement as her cheeks grew brighter, a rosy shade of coral against her dark complexion. “I’ve had one biter thus far and he’s so handsy you’d think he’s part dreugh. I’m not looking to be courted or anything, but a little subtlety would be appreciated.”

“That man?” Mathieu nodded in the direction of the table by the window. The Imperial sitting there rapped his fingers impatiently on the table as he looked toward Nimileth. She threw him a sheepish grin and quickly looked away.

Mathieu laughed, much to her chagrin. “You could do better.”

“Not to mention he breathes like a horse with a cold. I’ve had rotten luck tonight.” She sighed heavily and met Mathieu with a sad, earnest frown. “Am I- am I really so undesirable? No, no, don’t answer that.”

“Only a fool would deny you, Nimileth.”

“Hmph," she said, voice trailing off. "I’m starting to think that might be just what I’m into.”

Mathieu shifted in his seat as though readying himself to get up. “Perhaps I should take my leave then. I wouldn’t want to ruin your chances.“

“Oh, don’t be silly,” she cut in, placing a hand on his upper arm. “Please stay if you have time. And it’s Nim, by the way. Everyone calls me Nim.”

Mathieu ordered another beer and the two assassins fell into a colorful conversation about handsy men, their love of summer weather, and a mutual distrust for pirates. Nim was halfway through telling a story about a group of women down at the Flowing Bowl who liked to rook married men out of their hard earned septims and family heirlooms when Mathieu’s mind began to wander.

Nim drank her wine, and she looked so ordinary with her lips, stained red like cinnabar, pressed against the rim of the goblet. She shook her shoulders to the rhythm of the music, a small, lilting giggle escaping her. She was just another woman who longed to feel wanted, waiting for someone to slide up beside her, place his arm around her waist, and buy her another drink. He stared at the bottle in his hand, turned it in circles and wondered what Lucien would think if he saw his prized assassin here beside him all dolled up in her ruby lipstick and looking for someone to take her home.

He gazed up to meet her enthusiastic eyes and she looked so ordinary sitting there, smiling at him through fluttering lashes, that it was almost painful for Mathieu to know she would never live the mundane, suburban life that she was so good at impersonating.

“Nim,” he whispered and leaned in closer to her, sliding one arm behind the small of her back and gently squeezing her side. “Have dinner with me.”

She scoffed playfully. “And here I thought you were only interested in me when Lucien was around.” 

“Don’t be silly. Have dinner with me.”

She squinted at him as though in careful deliberation. "You're not piss drunk like last time, which is one mark in your favor," she said.

"And was I terrible company even when I was?"

"No," she chuckled, her mood lightening as she held his umber stare with an unrivaled persistence. She opened her mouth to speak again, but paused as Mathieu gently swiped a stray lash from her cheek. She took his hand in hers before he could shake it off.

“Make a wish,” she said, holding his finger before his lips.

Mathieu peered at the delicate little eyelash on the tip of his index finger and blew a small breath. He watched as it traveled through the air, spinning like a falling leaf before it disappeared amidst the crowd.

What would Lucien think if he saw them together now, blushing and sharing quiet laughter on a mundane Middas evening? The thought of the Speaker walking in on their ordinary little slice of bliss sent a chill over Mathieu’s arms, raising the thin hairs that grew there as a devilish delight heated his blood. What would Lucien think if he saw them together now, her waist in his arms as he lead her to a table across the room?

The evening bard and his troupe of musicians took a pause from their melodies and the tavern filled with inaudible chatter. Nim and Mathieu sat in the far table by the window as they ate fresh venison and roasted potatoes, making up stories for the townsfolk they spied around the room.

The couple at the nearby table were bickering loudly but their argument was undiscernable among the din of the crowd. The pair of assassins came to the conclusion that they were quarrelling over the man’s compulsive shopping habits.

“What was he buying?” Mathieu asked.

“Spoons.”

The Breton chuckled at her quick reply. “And now there’s no room in the kitchen for her mother’s antique silver. It’s been in her family for five generations.”

“The horror.” Nim shook her head and feigned a sympathetic frown. “They should just divorce now. It’s an incompatibility that cannot be overcome.”

The next target of their game was a middle-aged woman at the bar who was obviously looking to have an affair while her sea-fairing husband was out of town. Nim slapped Mathieu’s hand gently when he suggested she go over and exchange advice on how to pick up men. As they came to the end of their meal, Mathieu grew silent. Noticing the intense look he was giving her, Nim paused to purse her lips.

“Hmm? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Mathieu smiled and shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” she teased.

“Nim, you like me well enough, don't you?”

“Sure,” she grinned.

"How well?"

"What?" she laughed and took the last bite of her roast before slumping back in her chair and pushing her plate away. "I hardly know you. I like you as well as I like most strangers I drink with."

She stopped mid-chew as Mathieu leaned over and took her hand in his, his thumb stroking the length of her palm slowly. He suddenly became very conscious of every movement that occurred around them. Nim biting the inside of her cheek. The lute player testing the tune of his instrument before the next round of songs. His mouth growing increasingly dry as he cleared his throat to speak.

“Let me take you home tonight,” he said just as the drummer had started up again and drowned the low hush of his voice. Nim chuckled nervously, as though uncertain if she had heard him correctly.

“What did you say?”

“Let me walk you home,” Mathieu repeated, hoping she did not notice the slight alteration. "If you're done here, I mean. But we can stay longer, if you want. Should I order us another—"

“No," she replied with a whisper, heat suffusing the apples of her cheeks. "I- I'm done here. You can walk me home."

Slowly the pair stood up from their seats, and in silent agreement they made their way to the door.

* * *

Nim walked with her arm linked in Mathieu’s and told him the story of Logren Benirus, the necromancer that occupied her house before her. For good reason, she left out the part about the curses and recruiting some of her fellow mages to take down the lich that was lying undead in her basement. As they approached the gate of her front yard, Mathieu once again grew quiet and Nim chose not to fill the silence between them this time. She opened the gate and Mathieu walked her to the bottom of the steps leading to the porch. She proceeded upward and Mathieu let her unlink her arm from his as she ascended. Reaching the door, she paused and turned to face him. He looked up at her calmly with his hands clasped behind him, the smallest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as though he were waiting for her to return.

“Do you… want to come in?” She asked, her heart hammering in her throat. Nim had all but given up on the goal of her night, but there Mathieu stood just several feet away. if he said _no_ she wouldn’t take offense. At least she knew him. That alone put him one notch above anyone else in the tavern. Maybe.

Mathieu took a second to himself before he proceeded silently up the stone steps, and Nim took this as her cue to unlock the front door. She stepped inside and held it open for him to enter. They stood in the foyer for several breaths, tension thickening in the room, the darkness growing as she closed the door.

Nim led him into the kitchen and leaned back against the dining table.

“Do you want a drink?“ she asked sheepishly. Her hands fiddled with the chain of her amulet, and Mathieu smiled, her sudden nervousness endearing.

“I’m fine, thank you.” He said and let his eyes find hers through the dimly lit room.

She gripped the edge of the table tightly and glanced around her cabinets for anything more to offer him. “What about some light? Would you like me to—"

Before she could finish speaking, Mathieu closed the distance between them and slipped a hand around the back of her head. He pressed his lips to hers, and though they were cold against her mouth, she melted beneath them as if they were burning. It had been so long since she had been kissed like this, since she had felt wanted, and when Mathieu pulled away she found herself short of breath and thirsting.

“Show me to your room,” he whispered softly as he pressed his forehead to hers.

Nim took his hand and led him up the spiraled staircase to her bedroom, the anticipation building in her chest with each step. The room was cloaked in shadow save a single stream of starlight entering through the parted curtains of the window beside her bed. She had only taken one step inside when the door slammed closed behind her and a firm grip encircled her upper arm. Mathieu pulled her against him with enough force to knock her off balance, and she stumbled into his chest gracelessly. He laughed, and her mouth was on him in seconds, licking gently as his tongue found hers. She was warm where he had been cool. So warm that Mathieu wondered why he had let himself stay frozen and numb for this long.

Nim took him by the hands, walking backward and pulling him on top of her as she laid herself on the bed. She unbuttoned his shirt, pushing it down past his shoulders, as they kissed and moved against each other. With eyes locked in darkness, Nim placed his hand over her breast and he kneaded it through the fabric of her dress briefly before becoming distracted by her hair. It flowed across the blanket beneath her. Mathieu ran his fingers down the length of it, not remembering the last time he partook in such a small pleasure.

But the memory snapped back to him with a piercing jolt. A knife thrusted into his stomach, twisting. The scene returned to him, a haunting miasma flooding his senses, and the more Nim squirmed and moved her body against him, the more vivid it became.

Maria beneath him, her legs trembling and arms flailing as he pressed his knees into her chest and held her down. Maria beneath him, her amber eyes bulging, begging him to release the grip around her neck. The purple bruises that bloomed beneath his fingers and the tendons in his hands popping in his skin as he squeezed and squeezed and squeezed.

Nim moaned against his lips, but all he could hear was Maria’s rattling breath as the blood churned to foam at her mouth and spilled down her cheeks. When he looked at the woman beneath him, he didn’t see brown hair and bronzed skin. He saw Maria, dark curls matted with blood and skin swollen, blue, and distended as the rot set in.

“Wait,” Mathieu paused. His breaths grew rapid and shallow as he attempted to return his racing mind to the stillness of Nim’s bedroom.

“What’s that?” Nim mumbled, her mouth still moving across the skin of his chest, pulling him closer.

“I just have to…“ he started and trailed off into silence as he pulled away. Nim watched him grow rigid as he turned his head to face the wall, eyes squeezed shut and arms quaking. She allowed a night-eye spell to wash over her vision and chuckled nervously.

“Am I…really so undesirable,” she began, but the laugh caught in her throat when Mathieu’s gaze returned to her glassy and brimmed with a pool of tears.

“That was a joke,” she admitted weakly and crawled out from beneath him. “Mathieu, are you alright?”

“I’m sorry, Nim. I’m so sorry.”

She reached out for his hand, but he flinched away, the warmth of her skin now unbearable as he recalled Maria’s cold, lifeless body laying limp in his arms.

“I can’t stop thinking about her. When I look at you, I see her. But you’re not Maria, and I- I just can’t.”

Nim placed a hand on his bare chest, acknowledging the quiver of his muscles as she curled her fingers around his shoulder.

“It’s fine,” she whispered.

Mathieu sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. Hot tears fell through his fingers and he grasped at tufts of hair, ripping them out at the root with a guttural groan. Nim froze, watching as his whole body shook beside her, and then his shoulders fell slack. He crumpled against his knees and heaved.

“I’m sorry,” he cried again. In the darkness, he swore he saw her there looking at him, taunting him from the void through Nim’s worried stare. He screwed his eyes shut. He couldn’t bear to see her again. “I should leave you.”

“Mathieu.” Nim lurched forward, pulling on his arm, keepin him seated before he could rise from the bed. “You don’t have to go.”

He looked over his shoulder to meet the moonlight bouncing off her face. Her eyes were round and terrified and quickly fell to the blanket clenched tightly in her palm.

“Can’t I keep you company?" she asked. "Can’t you stay, just for a little while?” Her voice was a cracked whisper, and Mathieu felt his heart plummet into his stomach as he recognized the loneliness, the hollow desperation in her plea.

"Nim—"

“I won’t ask anything of you,” she promised him. "Let me be here for you. That's all."

Slowly, Mathieu rolled onto his side and held either side of her face in his hands. He planted a kiss on her forehead, and then tucked his knees into his chest, letting Nim wrap an arm around him. She held him gently.

“Why are you like this, Nimileth? What are you doing, throwing yourself away like this?”

“I just want to feel something warm right now,” she mumbled against his hair, stroking it, brushing her fingers through it. “Please, I’m so tired of having nothing to hold onto.”

They lay together like coils of rope, frayed at the ends and warped by the tension held within their twisting fibers. Mathieu rested his head on her chest, listening to the slow thrum of her heart as she combed her fingers down to the nape of his neck.

“All we do is kill and kill and kill. All we know is death,” he croaked out, pulling tightly at the fabric of Nim’s dress as his tears rolled down his cheeks. “I’m a monster.”

“Shh,” she commanded him. “You’re just a man.”

They laid there as minutes turned to hours and when Mathieu finally stirred and broke their embrace, Nim let him without objection. He left no parting words, only the indent of his slender frame in the mattress and the ghost of warmth that lingered there.


	19. The Hunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The note in this chapter is from the DLC Deepscorn Hollow, for anyone that is curious.

**Chapter 19: The Hunt**

As usual, Nim awoke alone.

She briefly contemplated never getting up from her bed again before a familiar scratching at the balcony door alerted her to the arrival of the morning strays. They meowed and hissed at the door, irked and impatient for their breakfast which was currently trapped behind it. Nim walked to her study and retrieved the stash of dry kibble that she had picked up from the general store on the docks. Although it was made for dogs, the neighborhood cats didn’t seem to mind one bit.

Afterwards, she wandered down to her kitchen with a slinky black cat at her heels. They had come to be fast friends over the few months she had spent feeding her on the balcony. Nim had named her _Bok-Xul_. Amusei had taught her that word from his mother-tongue. He said that in Jel, it roughly translated to ‘Bowl of Death,’ which made sense considering he had shouted that out with a string of expletives after stumbling into a pothole on one drunk night. Nim had always liked the way the word sounded, and Bok-Xul seemed to respond to it when called. The name stuck.

After breakfast, Nim headed outside to work on her garden and paused in her foyer when she saw a folded letter sitting on the floor right in front of the door. Her heart skipped, wondering if it was a message from the Council once again requesting her services. Stepping closer, she wondered if it was perhaps a note from Mathieu but quickly discarded the idea. The poor man had lost the love of his life, and he wasn’t ready to move on. There was nothing more for him to explain.

Then she spied the dark, brown splotches dried onto the parchment, and when she picked it up she knew it could only be one thing. Blood.

Slowly, she opened the letter and drew a sharp breath when she read her name in unfamiliar hand-writing.

_Nimileth,_

_I have watched you from afar and feel it is time to make myself known. I am Greywyn Blenwyth, the last of the Crimson Scars. Once a powerful force rivaling the Dark Brotherhood itself, the Scars were the true followers of Sithis and the masters of deception. _

_I will be departing this world soon, as the cold embrace of the Night Lord calls to me. In life, I served Sithis alongside your grandfather Vero, and now all I have I leave as a legacy to you and the last of our family. My home, Deepscorn Hollow, will be your new haven. Use the map on the reverse of this note to find it. All that lay within is yours to do with as you please. I have but one request in return... further the ways of shadow and honor Sithis with the darkest of deeds. Make the virtuous pay for their blasphemy with their lifeblood staining your blade. May Sithis guide you. _

_Greywyn_

“What the bloody fuck?”

Standing before the door, she re-read the letter once and then twice and then five more times for good measure. The map directed her to a small peninsula south west of Leyawiin. She didn’t know anyone named Greywyn. She didn’t know anyone named Vero. She was an orphan. Nothing existed of her outside of the flesh on her skeleton. No family. No legacy. And here was someone claiming that he knew her while hailing Sithis in the same sentence.

If this was true, if this was the only evidence of blood-kin she had in the world, Nim wasn’t sure she wanted to learn more. But if this was true, someone in the Dark Brotherhood must have known them. She thought of Vicente. He had been with the Dark Brotherhood for nearly two-hundred years. He must know something. She folded up the letter and fled upstairs to retrieve her pack.

Nim sighed beneath the weight of the new information. None of it made sense, and her stomach lurched at what she might find in this Deepscorn Hollow should she choose to seek it out. Could she really be descended from an assassin that walked the path of the void? Before leaving, she dressed herself and combed her hair in the small cracked mirror on her dresser. A weary reflection peered back. Nim took a hard look at the purple skin beneath her eyes and she was certain that the fatigue was not the only thing that looked different about her today.

* * *

Hours later, Nim found herself on the Red Ring Road just north of the Imperial City. The sky was dark gray above her and there was a crispness in the air that spoke of the nearing autumn. To her left was the Silver Road. If she continued ahead, she’d reach Cheydinhal by midnight. Nim dug her heels into the dirt and wrapped her cloak tighter around her body as she stared at the signs marking the crossroad.

She should be on her way to Bruma right now, investigating necromancer activity in the north of Cyrodiil. It was the most pressing issue at hand without a doubt, but she felt herself tugged toward Cheydinhal and cursed herself for it. She had never taken an interest in learning about her blood-family before. In fact, she had always assumed that what the headmistress at the Kvatch orphanage told her to be true. Her mother was a whore who had dumped her there one spring morning. Not very exciting. Not very special. She was one in thousands of unfortunate souls who bore the same story. What more could be said?

But the letter in her pack argued a richer story. Nim continued ahead.

It was nightfall when she reached the Blue Road, and as she walked the fragmented cobblestone path enclosed by the dense oak forests of the Heartlands, her head swam with uncertainty. The upland ahead seemed to go on forever, higher and higher until it reached the base of the Valus mountains in the far distance. With the canopy shielding the light of the moons above, Nim grew distracted by the darkness, finding nothing else in sight to occupy her eyes. She focused on the continuous incline of the road, and for a brief stretch, her mind quieted.

She was not so distracted, however, that she missed the sudden footfall and cracking of twigs in the brush behind her. Her ears perked, alerted to a new presence stalking in the shadows and in a matter of seconds, adrenaline surged into her blood. She readied herself for an attack, hand on the hilt of her blade. She didn’t peer back, not at first. Instead, she cast two spells, invisibility and detect life, before darting off the road and disappearing into the forest.

* * *

Lucien's departure from Bravil had left him in good spirits. He had received so many promising contracts from the Listener, and while walking north along the Yellow Road, he fingered the envelopes in his pocket, thinking of how to assign them to the members of his Sanctuary. The hit on the roving trade caravan would be best suited for Gogron and all his lack of subtlety. Few would be around to see them slaughtered out on the road. He’d give the contract for the Blackwood company mercenary to Telaendril. She would be in Leyawiin later that week anyway. The contract from jilted lovers were all to plenty in this batch. Those bored M’raaj-Dar to no end, but excited Antoinetta with a feverish delight. He’d let his executioners decide how to split what remained.

The most interesting one by far was the contract for a party down in Skingrad. Lucien had been tempted to take it for himself, but he thought of Nim, her reservations for any contract that threatened her anonymity, anything that required her to be remotely personal. She wouldn’t like this next job, but he needed to know that she could kill someone after looking into their eyes and convincing them she was no threat. He needed to know that she would not be squeamish while murdering five people under the same roof after she had gained their trust. The opportunity to test her fortitude could not have been any more perfect. How she fulfilled her duties would change her trajectory within the Dark Brotherhood. It would change her life irrevocably. He envied her, really. It was the contract that promised the most entertainment by far.

Making his way to Fort Farragut, it was just Lucien’s good luck when he saw her there skirting the edge of the road toward Cheydinhal. _She must have completed her mark at Fort Sutch_, he thought, and adoration bloomed like warm honey thick in the base of his throat. She had grown so much under his roof. Blossomed into something truly deadly, like nightshade, and it made his heart swell to know that she walked the same path as he did. The path of Sithis and into the Void.

He followed after her, moved on instinct as he stalked through the dark brush with his chameleon shroud fading his form into darkness. Her face was calm, eyes fixed on the next step in front of her as the wind swept her hair over her shoulders. He crept alongside her, his breath quickening as he imagined reaching out toward her, touching her, doing worse. With a stifled smile, he envisioned the ashen shock spreading across her ochre skin if he just took a few steps close.

How easy it would be for him if only she were a contract. 

But something in his step must have alerted her, because he had looked down at the fallen branch beneath his foot for one moment, no more, and then she was gone.

Lucien scanned the dark forest, searching for a sign of her among the trees. The sound of her muted footsteps crunching in the litter faded into the shrill wind calls blowing down off the mountains. The hair at the nape of his neck prickled in the silence, and Lucien no longer felt alone in the hunt.

A zip broke through the air, piercing the surrounding leaves and causing him to jump aside. Though he dodged the arrow’s intended aim, Lucien was knocked to the ground by the sharp impact as metal embedded into the left side of his chest, just below his clavicle. He looked down to see the shaft of splintered wood sticking skyward and touched the flesh beside his wound, pulling back his fingers to find them stained dark red.

Intoxicated and strengthened by the sudden rush of an impending fight, Lucien stood to his feet, steadying himself against the trunk of the nearby tree. He snapped the shaft of the arrow a few inches from his chest and cast a detect life spell.

Perhaps he had underestimated her, he smirked to himself. He drew his dagger from its sheath before he advanced into the forest. And if his blood wasn’t red and boiling before, it certainly was now.

* * *

The figure had found her. _Was he Morag Tong? Was he a simple marauder?_ She should have stayed on the defensive, but when she thought she had a clear shot, she took it. The assailant was dexterous and moved around her attacks as though he had foreseen them. She ran, but he was faster.

Nim tumbled to the ground, clutching the side of her abdomen where the man had struck her with his blade. She winced through the searing pain and called forth her flames only to find the dreaded sensation of concrete in her blood. She gasped and tried again. Not even a flicker escaped, and there was no doubt in her mind now that she had been silenced.

She drew the Blade of Woe from her boot and rolled onto her back as the shrouded figure lunged for her. She plunged her dagger forward, but the figure acted fast and pushed her arm away. Her dagger missed, piercing the man just under the ribs, and his hands flew to her throat. Nim, unable to call upon any spell, pushed her palm into the broken shaft of the arrow protruding from his chest. With a strained cry, he loosened his grip momentarily only to grab hold of her bleeding side and flip her onto her stomach. She felt his knee pressing into her back as he pinned her beneath him.

Without her magic, Nim was helpless against the oppressive weight. The man pulled on a fistful of her hair, exposing her throat to the blade he pressed against it. She felt its sharp edge pierce into her skin and sunk her hands into the soil, grasping at the loam as though if she dug her hands deep enough she might find a way to escape. She quivered beneath him, a whimpered cry escaping her lips as she wondered if the Gods above would now hear her prayers.

“There it is,” the man murmured into her ear. “True, unadulterated fear.”

She knew that voice, and its name trembled on her lips.

“Lucien?”

The man lifted his knee off her back and slowly rolled her to face him. She looked up, eyes brimmed with tears, wide and shining like the twin moons in full.

“Ah,” he whispered, tempted to reach out and swipe the blood-soaked hair away to see her clearly. “That’s the most expression I’ve ever seen on your face before.”

Nim sat up slowly with a loud, drawn out groan. As she caught her breath, she met Lucien’s eyes. They were lifeless, empty pits, and she watched a small smile creep to the corner of his mouth. The lurid pleasure on his features left her bilious, and Nim tried again to call on a burst of fire, releasing a choked sob when none of her magicka stirred awake. She lunged forward and slapped Lucien across the face. Her hand-print glowed red on his cheek.

“Finish me then,” she hissed, wincing again as every movement of her diaphragm stretched the wound at her side. “What’s keeping you?”

“You struck me first, dear Sister. I was only acting in self-defense.” Now that the action had calmed, he began to notice an overwhelming fatigue take hold in his body. His vision blurred at the periphery and a heaviness grew in his legs as though they were filling with rocks.

“You’re a lunatic,” she spat. “Why the hell were you following me?”

“We were headed in the same direction," he said. "So jumpy, Nimileth. Eager for a fight, were you? And here I thought you found unnecessary blood shed distasteful.”

Nim drew a rattled breath as she wiped her bloodied hands across her face and thought deeply about what had just transpired. It was true. She had attacked him, but he had played the part of a lurking highwayman. Regardless, he was her Speaker, and though prowling in the darkness was highly suspect, it wasn’t assault. He wouldn’t have come for her unprovoked, at least she wanted to believe so.

“You could have just told me it was you,” she sighed, no energy for fiercer argument. Neither of them were dead, but they were losing blood quickly.

Lucien struggled to keep his eyes open as he chuckled to himself. “Where is the fun in that?”

Ignoring him, Nim began to rise to her feet. “I can’t cast anything,” she said. She stood too swiftly and closed her eyes against her fading vision. “Did you silence me?”

Lucien released a gurgled chortle, choking back on a mouthful of blood. “I thought you preferred silence, dear Sister.”

“This isn’t funny, you bastard," she barkee at him. "You’re poisoned.”

He raised his brows, a moment of disbelief filling the whites of his eyes. “I’m what?”

“The arrow in your chest, it’s tipped with a poison of drain fatigue. I use them for hunting deer, to keep them from running off when I hit them. Any minute now, you’re going to pass out, and if I can't heal you, you're as good as gone.”

Lucien slumped backward onto his haunches and took note that drawing steady breaths was growing increasingly difficult. “That sounds like cheating," he murmured. "Doesn’t it spoil the spirit of the hunt?”

Nim ignored him yet again. “Don’t you know a healing spell? You’re going to bleed out if you don’t."

"I don't."

"Your useless! How long will this silence last?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “It’s an enchanted blade." His lazy eyes wandered to the bloody gash on her side, and he stared, admiring the flow of red as it bled through her clothing. "And I cut you pretty deeply.”

“We have to get to Cheydinhal,” she groaned, testing her wounds with a new step. “My restoration is useless like this.”

“You’re an alchemist, right? Don’t you carry any healing potions?”

“You bastard!” Nim cried out, picking up her pack and throwing it at the patch of grass just beside him. “You smashed me into the ground! Everything is shattered!”

Lucien pushed himself back to his knees, readying himself to stand again. “I live nearby. Just north of here. I have an infirmary set up there, and if we leave now we can make it.”

Shakily, Nim stepped forward using her longbow to steady herself as she approached him. With her foot, she pushed Lucien down onto his back.

“I should leave you here,” she spit, pressing the sole of her boot across his throat. Lucien’s eyes grew wide, and Nim knew the glimmer that shined back at her was not fear. He looked up with a bloodied grin.

“Do it then,” he smirked darkly. “I dare you.”


	20. Into the Void

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Extremely dubious consent in this chapter.

**Chapter 20: Into the Void**

They tumbled to the floor, Lucien’s energy finally giving out as his head crashed against the stone with a dull _t__hump_. He stared at the cobwebs on the ceiling of his fort, finding new constellations in the beads of moisture that clung to them.

“I see Sithis coming,” he mumbled, his voice raspy and cracking. “Come, Nimileth. Let us welcome the Void together.”

Casting a cursory glance in the direction of his eyes, Nim found nothing particularly ominous or amusing. She sighed heavily as she rose to her feet.

“Oblivion take you,” she snorted, thinking of how happy the little spiders would be to desiccate his corpse. “I’m not dying like that.”

He laughed calmly, serenely, and kept his eyes forward. They grew distant and glazed as he stared further and further into the silken strands above. If Nim had the energy to waste, she would have rolled her eyes. The blood-loss was certainly getting to his head.

Taking a deep breath, Nim stumbled forward and clutched the stone pillar in the center of the room, her vision slightly blurred at the periphery. She looked through Lucien’s belongings in search of anything remotely resembling a potion. She uncorked a few bottles, wafted the subtle fumes up to her nose but found only poisons. She should have expected it, bloody assassins.

Lucien had alchemy equipment laid out on a nearby table but after examining his stores, there were few of the ingredients that she needed to dispel her silence or brew a potion potent enough to heal the severity of his wounds. In his pantry she found various fruits, cured meats, and an assortment of dried fungi. Some fly amanita, some green stain. Enough to make a poultice to stop the bleeding, but not enough to repair the flesh. Given the blood loss, she wasn’t sure she had enough time to distill all the ingredients to make a proper potion before he lost consciousness. Part of her wondered if it would really be such a bad thing if she allowed it to happen.

After entertaining the thought for far longer than she should have, she brushed the thought away. Her hands had caused this, intentionally or not. Even if Lucien was a stupid fool who deserved it, she wouldn’t let him bleed out in his own home. She had tasted enough of death tonight.

In a cupboard she spied needles and thread. The old-fashioned way it was.

Nim pulled out a bruised aloe vera leaf from her pack and rinsed it of any contaminating properties that might have spilled onto it when her potions smashed. She added it to the mortar and began grinding down the mushroom caps into a coarse paste. She treated her wound first and swiftly. She rinsed away the blood and debris that had accumulated at the site of her cut before applying the poultice and securing it around her waist with a wrapping of gauze. She then approached Lucien with a tray of assorted medical equipment. Bandages, a pitcher of water, and the remaining salve.

She started at the shoulder, with the arrowhead lodged deep into the muscle, and Nim ignored how Lucien’s drowsy stare flitted across her face while she worked. She inspected the wound silently.

Lucien admired the intensity with which she tended to him. His mind felt like it was floating away from him. His body too, numb and icy and so barely there to contain him. All he could focus on was the splattering of dark sunspots over the bridge of the elf’s nose, the scrunch between her brows as she rinsed away his blood. He had never met such a lethal healer in all his life.

“So you are gentle after all,” he cooed. “Like the blooming nightshade unfurling her sepals at dusk. The soft scent of sugared nectar—”

Nim dug her finger into the hole below his clavicle, drawing a loud hiss from the Speaker as she pulled out the remains of the shattered arrowhead. He squinted at her through tear-brimmed eyes and laughed. A caustic frown spread over her lips.

“I am only capable of so much empathy, Lucien. Please stop talking to me.” She shoved a piece of willow bark in his mouth to chew on. As if his flowery garble wasn’t already the last thing she wanted to hear, she desperately needed to concentrate in her weakened state. She had trained as a healer in the Great Chapel of Mara with Marz for several months before joining the Mages Guild. Thus, she knew how to dress a wound and stitch skin together, but in the years that followed she had grown to rely heavily upon her magic. Without it, she might as well be naked.

Nim pulled Lucien’s robes over his head and was relieved to find plain clothes beneath them. She couldn’t imagine how she would react if he had nothing on. As if her failed romantic endeavors and prolonged dry spell were not bad enough on their own, if this had to be the first time she saw a naked man all year she was sure there must be some cosmic joke at play.

Quickly cleansing her mind of such visions, Nim cut through the wool shirt and began to peel away the fabric that clung to Lucien’s body, stuck there by the drying blood that had soaked through from his wounds. Rinsing the skin to reveal the lesion, she gasped.

A trail of raised scars crisscrossed over Lucien’s chest. Her suspicions about the Speaker’s lack of training in restoration had been confirmed as she absentmindedly grazed a finger down the deep furrow that ran obliquely along his abdomen. The flesh that lined them was pink and smooth, a sign that whatever injury he had acquired had been left to heal naturally over time.

Her eyes wandered over his chest, across the jagged mementos left from years of combat. Maybe decades. Nim stared at his face, scrutinizing the shallow wrinkles at his eyes and the sparse wisps of graying hair dispersed along his temples. For the first time since meeting Lucien, she tried to guess his age. He must be in his late thirties at least. Forties? Being an assassin must have aged him prematurely. She focused again on his injuries. They were much deeper than she had initially thought.

“See something you like?” he asked, mumbling with his mouth full of softened willow bark. Nim rolled her eyes at his wicked, blood-stained smile and continued rinsing.

“Godsblood, even at an hour like this you’re just an impulse incarnate,” she huffed. “I cannot fathom how Antoinetta is so fond of you. You’re painfully one-dimensional.”

“Antoinetta knows my dimensions like no other in the Sanctuary. I assure you, I am very much a multi-faceted person.”

A bitter scowl harshened on her face. “That’s revolting.”

“And I don’t see how everyone is so enamored with you,” he grunted as she pressed the poultice to his wound. “You’re incredibly high-strung without all of your illusion charms.”

Nim ignored him and when she had done all she could for his injuries, she hobbled over to the alchemy equipment and began once more to scrounge for anything she could use to dispel the lingering effects of the silence poison infecting her magical reserves.

“There is some dried bergamot in the tin to your right,” Lucien croaked out from the floor. He too dabbled in alchemy and knew what she would be looking for given what ailed her.

“Do you have any wine?”

He turned his neck toward her, a curious grin on his face.

“You’re drinking at an hour like this?" he said, his tone ripe with sarcasm. "And I thought I was a slave to my vices.”

He sat up and dragged himself toward the stone pillar with a groan. Nim looked at him expectantly with a hand on her hip as Lucien leaned himself against the column. He pointed to the table in the far corner and took a few moments to catch his breath, thankful for the mild numbing effect of whatever she had applied to his wounds.

Nim brought the wine and a firestarter to the desk and perched herself before a retort. She couldn’t remember the last time she had to use flint and steel to beget flame. Once she got the sparks jumping onto her little pile of wood splinters, she dropped the bergamot seeds into the wine and let the concoction simmer, drawing out the restorative properties of the grapes. It was the best she could do for a dispel potion given the limits of her situation. She sunk back in the chair and let her head roll as she breathed deep and weary.

Across the room, Lucien attempted to stand with support of the pillar, but his knees buckled beneath him and slowly he slumped back toward the ground. Nim looked over at the crumpled man. Beads of sweat pooled at his temples, and she snickered.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, biting her lower lip to suppress a creeping simper.

His eyes shimmered, full of perspiration. “Like morning sunshine and a breath of spring air. When is this fatigue going to fade, do you suppose?” The pique in his voice was less than well concealed.

Nim gave a callous shrug, noting that the color was slowly returning to his face. His attempts at humor were also a promising sign of recovery, but a large part of her wished he could stay quiet for just a while longer.

“Dunno," she said. "The deer are usually dead before then. I’ve never tested it on a human before either.”

Lucien replied with a stiff glare.

For the first time since arriving in the fort, Nim took in her surroundings. _Musty_ was the first word on her tongue. It was neither cold nor warm, but it was mildly humid. Sticky even. Her skin felt damp even where the blood had been cleansed away, and ventilation was practically nonexistent. There was sparse furniture and decor aside from the ample bookshelves and Dark Brotherhood tapestries. Nim looked closer at the desk before her, running her hand across the wooden surface. She swore it was mahogany, Senchal Red, and that did not come cheap. Glancing about the room once more, she noticed all of the furniture was ornately carved, masterfully built from that rich, brown timber. She couldn't imagine how much it must have cost for such a set, and it all looked so out of place in this cobweb-riddled dungeon.

In the distance, she heard a rusted scraping sound. Lucien had told her about the skeletal guardians that roamed the halls of Fort Farragut. It was likely the only willing company that he had here in this dungeon-like abode. Except for Antoinetta, maybe.

_So Lucien lives like this, huh._

If she sniffed deeply enough, she could catch hints something metallic, copper and iron, the smell of blood in the air. Of course, they tumbled in with blood dripping off their bodies, but it wouldn’t surprise her if there had been sources of the smell from Lucien’s previous… visitors.

“You know, I’ve heard things. Stories about what you do to your victims when you bring them here,” Nim said absentmindedly as she peered into the dark passage that lead out from the chamber.

“Well then, you seem rather calm for someone who is alone in my presence given what you've heard.” The Speaker attempted a smirk, obviously unaware of how pathetic and unformidable it appeared in his current state of dishevelment. Nim met him with a bare frown.

Lucien, once again, attempted to stand and Nim watched in amusement as he shuffled around with his back pressed against the pillar. She paused before saying anything, taking in the sight of him struggling to keep balance as he took a step toward the pantry.

“Sit down before you hurt yourself,” she chided and dragged a chair out for him. “What do you need anyway?”

“I can get what I need,” he insisted with a firm nod as he continued shambling forward.

Nim threw her head back in manic laughter.

“Fine, stumble your way there then," she said, "And I bet they were just exaggerations anyway, those stories. I hear your lips are quite the rumor mill.”

“I bet the stories you’ve heard are not as bad as the ones you haven’t.” There was a note of pride in his voice. It left a sour taste in Nim’s mouth as she turned away.

“Hmph.” She grumbled, choosing to dedicate no more energy to the topic.

Lucien made his way back to the alchemical desk with an assortment of produce and dried herbs. He dragged the chair along with him and slumped down into it to catch his breath before selecting the ingredients for his potion. He chose fennel seeds, a handful of wheat grain, and a couple fresh blackberries. Nim passed the mortar and pestle his way and eyed him curiously as he assembled the materials for a potion of restore fatigue.

“You could have just asked me to make that for you.”

“I’m perfectly capable.”

“You look like you just ran a mile on one leg,” she quipped, swiping a berry and plopping into her mouth.

“And what does that have to do with the price of Kwama eggs?”

Nim held her hands up in defense and returned to waiting in silence for her potion to finish brewing. By his selection of ingredients, she knew his preparation would be weak. There were perfectly good peony seeds on the table which would have produced a far more potent concoction. _And wheat grain with fennel seeds? _The two together would result in a deleterious side effect that would drain the drinkers magicka. But she supposed Lucien didn’t have much need for that anyway.

_Amateur, _she scoffed internally. _Capable my left ass cheek_.

Lucien noticed her grimace as he worked and raised his brows, expecting a tirade of disapproval to flow from her tightly pursed lips. If she had a problem with his preparation, however, she didn’t tell him. Instead she sat demurely as she ate blackberry after blackberry, occasionally worrying the inside of her cheek with bated breath as she silently scrutinized his every step.

* * *

When the time was right, the two assassins drank their respective potions and took a long pause from any movement or chatter to regain their strength in peace. Nim let a powerful healing spell wash over her and moaned in satisfaction as she felt the magicka coursing through her unalloyed. Lucien watched with the shadow of a smile, finding her reaction more than a little amusing.

Nim's chipper mood quickly fell when she turned to face him and remembered why exactly she had been silenced in the first place.

“I ought to do something about those wounds, Lucien,” she said, sober and matter-of-factly as she held his eye

“If that will help you rest easy at night.” He shrugged and peeled back the torn fabric of his shirt, exposing the bloodied bandages she had wrapped him in. “Do what you must.”

Nim paused briefly at his words and then scooted her chair in front of his. She set her hand on his chest. A small jolt of electricity leapt from the pads of her fingers and drew a shrill yelp from his lips as he sprung from his seat. The now slightly smoking Speaker parted his lips with an icy scolding ready on his tongue, but she quickly cut him off with a shake of her head.

“I did what I must," she said with an innocent shrug. "You said it. Not me.”

“You insolent little child,” he growled back as the shock dissipated across his shoulders and down to his fingers.

Nim crossed her arms over her chest and met his glare with a lukewarm smirk. “No, you.”

“No. _You._” He paused, a perplexed furrow deeping in his forehead as he tried to understand what he had just said. “What does that even mean?”

Nim maintained her impassive expression as she righted the chair and gestured for Lucien to return to his seat.

“It means sit down, please." Lucien only stared, his expression stern. Nim gestured once more to the chair. "We’re not done here. Come on.”

“If you do that again--”

"Yeah, yeah."

And Lucien sat, despite the tingle that persisted in the nerves travelling along his upper limb.

Nim removed Lucien’s bandages and worked her convalescent spell over his wounds. The skin healed before his eyes and the numbed pain that once radiated from it quickly dissipated. Using her foot, Nim swept the discarded gauze and poultice into a pile at her feet and nodded her head contently.

“I suppose our business together has reached an end,” she sighed, satisfied. “What excitement we’ve had. I can’t possibly imagine a more productive use of my evening then skirting the edge of death with you.”

“Contain your enthusiasm, Eliminator. Your eagerness is unbecoming.”

Nim stood and began to gather her belongings. She peered down at her shirt and frowned at the awful tatters and blood stains that left it in ruins. “You don’t suppose I could borrow something from you?”

Lucien flicked his eyes across the bloodied skin that peeked out from the tears of her shirt and contained the twitch of his lips. “I see nothing wrong with how you’re dressed.”

She squinted her eyes at him, unamused. “I’d rather not have the rest of our Brothers and Sisters question how I met spent my evening. Please? I promise I’ll return it.”

“Don’t bother.”

He motioned toward the dresser along the far wall and watched bitterly as she scurried away from him.

Pausing halfway to the chest of drawers, Nim spied a curious object in the corner of her eyes. “Is- is that your lyre?” she asked.

Lucien lifted his head to follow the direction of her gaze. He nodded.

“It’s quite large," she said, stepping closer to it, inspecting it as she leaned in. "It has more strings than I’m used to seeing. It looks more like a half-harp.”

Lucien scoffed contemptuously. “The harp and the lyre are very different instruments in both performance and structure," he said. "The arrangement of the strings over the bridge produces an entirely distinct sound. That is an Ayleid Heartwood lyre no less, but I wouldn’t suspect you to notice such subtleties given your keen observation.”

Normally, the pretentiousness of such a remark would have piqued her, but at mention of the Ayleid, Nim’s heart skipped.

“Where did you get such a thing?”

Lucien didn’t look like much of a treasure hunter. She quickly glanced around the room, hoping to find more artifacts among the shelves of books and scattered cookware. Nothing jumped out at her, not even a Varla stone. But even from a few meters away, Nim could see the intricacy of the engravings on the lacquered wood of the lyre. Small Welkynd insets glimmered in the faint light of the wall sconces. It was undeniably Ayleid in motif. She itched to see it up close, to run her hands along the decorative fretwork, and then describe every of inch of it to Skaleez and Denel in painstaking detail as they debated over the period in which it was crafted.

“On contract,” Lucien replied. “It belonged to a collector of rare instruments, and the man who wanted him dead had an eye for Ayleid artifacts in particular. He planned to hire thieves to loot the estate after I had taken care of the owner, but he never said I couldn’t take a souvenir for myself.”

It didn’t surprise Nim that Lucien kept mementos from his marks. At least he had good taste. She bit her tongue to keep from asking whether it was Umbacano who had placed the contract. She knew no other Ayleid collector as ruthless as the old Altmer. “Do you know anything about how it was used in cultural practice?”

_Did he know how it was used_…_bah!_

At the senseless question, Lucien shot her a withering look. The next think she’d be asking was whether or not he knew how to strangle a man.

“Any musician worth a dime knows the history of their instrument," he scoffed. "The Heartwood lyre was designed specifically for the acoustics of the marble walls with which the Ayleid built their temples. It was played regularly during worship in celebration of Magnus. The bridge is sloped such that each string produces a different pitch. It plays song like you’ve never heard before.”

“Can you play it for me?”

He raised his brows at her request, taking careful note of the earnest sparkle in her eye as she chewed the corner or her bottom lip. He was sure she would be scuttling off the moment her magicka returned, but without hesitating any longer, he walked toward her and took the lyre to the edge of his bed. He rested the instrument on his thigh and nestled it into the crook of his arm before lifting one hand and then the other before the strings. His fingers ghosted over either side of them as though whispering, persuading them into song.

The Speaker plucked slowly at first, producing wispy notes like gossamer that echoed faintly across the stone walls. Nim held her breathe as though exhaling might shatter the silken strands of music spun through his hands. They danced gracefully and with purpose, plucking notes in careful conversation with the strings held between his fingers.

Nim couldn’t remember the last time she had heard someone play with such elegance. It must have been back in Castle Kvatch, the night of Count Goldwine’s 50th birthday. She had snuck through a vent that lead from the servant’s quarters to the grand hall just to hear the travelling troupe perform. When she had gazed around the audience, she saw that everyone was crying, weeping at the lutist’s music, and Nim couldn’t understand why they were in tears when his song was so beautiful. But then she felt her own eyes and pulled back wet fingertips. The lutist played on and her throat clenched and suddenly she was choking back sobs as she fled back to the kitchen before anyone heard her pitiful whimpering. Though she remembered little of the songs she had heard that day, all those years ago, she would never forget how the music resonated through her blood and stirred something visceral inside her.

In front of her, Lucien bowed his head and played with such fierce focus she swore he was no longer in the same room as her. She sat cross-legged at his feet and watched the creases form on his forehead as his hands danced, each finger skipping to its own step of the routine. Nim closed her eyes and the notes fell like spring dew, soft and barely noticeable on her skin. And then he picked faster, and the song was summer storm, all lightning cracked skies and somber notes. He played a harrowing verse like winter in Kvatch, deathly grey and the despair so thick and palpable in the air that she could drink it right out of the music.

Minutes passed where she sat motionless before the melody, a mist welling in her eyes.

And the tune was lovely, so impossibly lovely that she almost forgot it was the Speaker who sat in front of her. As the music softened to silence, she looked up at him, wiping away the small tear rolling down her face. On the night of the party in the Sanctuary, Lucien had made light of his skill as a musician, and Nim found him terribly incorrect. But he had been right about one thing. His residence truly did have wonderful acoustics.

Nim inhaled softly as though readying to speak or offer praise, but she shut her mouth quickly. She felt her face rumple involuntarily and swallowed against the whimpers that threatened to escape. No words could communicate the wrenching of her heart as the echo of the music lingered across her eardrums, burdening it with resounding heaviness. She drew her hands up to her eyes and pressed them against the skin there, pushing the sobs back into her skull.

Lucien shifted and cleared his throat as though waiting for acknowledgment, and Nim looked up, rosy-eyed and lachrymose. An applause hardly seemed appropriate for such a performance and instead she clasped her hands together and squeezed, thinking hard on how to react.

“Such theatrics,” Lucien finally spoke. Nim felt her face suffuse with heat. “You look wounded.”

“I suppose I am. Shouldn’t good music leave you so?” She sniffled, finding herself wordless and cotton mouthed. Using the sleeve of her shirt, she wiped at her eyes, leaving a trail of brown smudged across the temples of her head. Her words tumbled out in a garbled flurry. “It was lovely and hopeless and tragic and it moved me and I don’t know what else to say.”

“Hopeless?” he asked curiously. “I think you may be projecting a little.”

“Where did you learn to play like that?”

“My father insisted upon lessons in my youth. One of the only good things to come from him, really.” He gave a casual shrug and quickly moved away from the topic. “Now, will you grace us with your voice? I’ll play the melody if you tell me the song.”

“Mmm,” Nim hummed skeptically. “I don’t know. I don’t sing for just anyone, especially not people who try to kill me.”

“Yet I played for you. Besides, I thought I had made it clear that it was never my intention to cause harm.” Lucien stood and walked to a nearby shelf. He returned with two stone cups and a large bottle made of green glass. “Here, as an apology.”

She turned it over in her hands, attempting to read the label only to find it was printed in a foreign language. Only the number system was Cyrodiilic and the date was from some decades ago. She handed the bottle back to him.

“I don’t know what this is.”

“It’s Argonian Bloodwine.”

“Oh.” Her eyes widened to pearls and she looked back to the bottle in his hand as though she had just been told it was her long forgotten lover returning from the dead. “Well then… a sip, maybe.”

Lucien nodded and began to uncork it.

“Wait,” she called out, shifting onto her knees. “I’m not a fool, you know. “

Lucien glanced up to find her toying with the chain of her amulet and smiled. Except for the ruby inset, It was stained the dark brown of oxidized blood, and in his eyes the decadence made its beauty even more impressive. It rested so perfectly on her decollate.

Noticing the focus of his attention, Nim tucked the amulet away. She straightened her posture and leaned forward on her arms with narrowed eyes. “What are you playing at?” she asked. 

Lucien recoiled slightly, as though offended. “I beg your pardon?”

“What is it that you want from me, Lucien? What should I take this to mean?”

A wolfish grin spread across his face as he uncorked the bottle and began to pour.

“Why would I want something from you? It’s an apology,” he assured her. “Banus Alor gave me the name of his supplier in Black Marsh. You said you would like to try it, and here we are.”

“A glass,” Nim replied, holding up a single finger and holding her gaze steady on the wine. “One glass.”

But one glass turned into two, and two turned into three and soon, the small elf was whirling around the room to a tune she had obviously made up on the spot. She had a voice like morning mist, velveteen and ephemeral as it wafted across the room. Lucien had stopped playing his lyre some twenty minutes ago and now sat on the bed nursing a bottle of beer, ignoring her pleas for him to provide another rhythm.

He nodded along to her _Ode to Fruit,_ an original piece she claimed, and he watched as she cast small orbs of starlight around herseld, twirling with a celestial glow. He too was feeling a jovial buoyancy, or perhaps that was simply the lingering euphoria of the blood loss. It was possible that if she hadn’t drunk most of the wine, he _might_ be inebriated enough to join her on the ballroom she had made of his chamber.

The girl sang.

_And the apple said to the peach, ‘don’t we make the finest pear?_

_Of all the love I’ve tasted this is the sweetest of affairs._

_It won’t be easy on the run, but at least we have this hope.’_

_But the peach said to the apple, ‘No, my dear we cantaloupe.’_

The song was ridiculous, even in the honey of her lips, but something about the innocent mirth of her giggle filled Lucien with a warmth that outshone the burn of alcohol in his belly. He watched in his drunk stupor, not caring that she was now letting snowflakes fall to his rug which would inevitably melt and give rise to mold. Watching her dance, he felt whole and wretched in the same breath.

She must have bewitched him, he thought. How else could he explain the way in which he thirsted? What other reason did he have for holding her face behind his eyes when he closed them? Ever since the Night Mother had requested Lucien to bring her into the family’s ranks, he found himself chasing shadows in the shape of her and always she pulled away with that cruel, callous smile gracing her face.

But she had chosen to stay for a drink tonight, and that meant something.

Didn’t it?

She twirled and twirled, and her aura of starlight followed the listless sway of her limbs. For a second he swore that she was a piece of Aetherius itself fallen to Nirn but quickly shook his head.

No.

There she stood covered in the rust of their dried blood. She killed in Sithis name, and one day soon, she would kill for him too. She was no delicate soul, no seraphic being. She wore death and decay like a fetid perfume, and only Lucien saw her truly.

She was a gift from the Void, he thought, and she was irresistibly lovely.

Eventually Nim crumpled to the floor with a content sigh, smiling at herself. Her eyes fluttered open and closed and open and closed against the flame of the wall sconces shedding dim light across the room.

“Am I drunk, or is it me?” she mumbled with a large grin and licked her lips. “That wine was everything I had dreamt it would be.” Slowly her breath returned to her and she brushed her hair back over her ears. “Lucien?”

He looked up expectantly, felt his heart in his throat as she stood, shakily, to her feet.

“How long have we been here? It must be so late. Dibella’s tits, I ought to leave.” She took a moment to stabilize herself against the central pillar and glanced around the room as though wondering where she was for the first time.

“Well,” she said, clearing her throat. “Thanks for the wine. ‘Twas a good one, very good. Maybe we could do this again sometime, you know, minus the busted ribs and poisoned arrows.”

She made her way across the room toward the rope ladder leading up to the exit hatch. Lucien followed after her, a swiftness that surprised even him. He reached for her, placed his hand on her shoulder when she reached out to grasp the first rung.

“Nim, have some water first,” he said and walked her toward the nearby chair. She followed his lead and gracelessly plopped herself down as he retrieved a pitcher.

“We’re not a bad duo, you and I. My voice, your...” She paused to take a sip of water. “...uh, your hands.”

“A fine pair, if I may say so.” Lucien watched as a drop spilled from the corner of her mouth down her chin. She smiled and small chuckle escaped her along with another sputter of water. She wiped her mouth.

“You have to be the apple though. I’m obviously the peach.” She smirked and stood again, thrusting the cup into Lucien’s hands. Its' contents spilled down his arm and she blushed, whispering an apology.

“Nimileth,” he started and once again reached out for her. “You shouldn’t be walking home like this.”

“Oh right, you said you’d lend me a shirt.” She turned around to face him and gently removed his hand from her shoulder. “How ‘bout that black one laying on the dresser?” Nim took a few steps past Lucien toward the drawers before he took hold of her upper arm, keeping her still in place. She stared intently at his hand around her bicep and looked up with quizzical eyes.

Lucien chuckled and shook his head. “In the morning, Nimileth. For now, you should rest. It isn’t wise for a woman to walk home alone after a night of heavy drinking and blood loss.”

“I didn’t think you the fatherly type,” she replied, shaking off his grip and placing her hands on her hips. “Seems like you’re forgetting that I’m capable of killing men thrice my size. Now as I’ve said, I need to get to the Sanctuary. People might think things, you know.”

“Who might think what, Nimileth? Nobody knows you’re here.”

“Oh.”

And suddenly the room grew a little darker. The sweet taste of wine that lingered in her mouth grew acrid at the back of her tongue. Nim tried very hard to concentrate on the grout between the tiles of the floor. A little voice creeped into the back of her mind, whispering just behind her ear. A whisper that sounded like the word _run_. 

“What kind of Speaker would I be if I let you wander off and get yourself killed like this?” He asked and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. On reflex, she stretched her neck to the side, pulling her head away from his hand.

“Well, walk me home then,” she suggested, with a shrug that was much more casual in appearance then it felt. Despite the increasing thrum of her heart as it beat against her ribcage, she offered a poised smile and fluttered her lashes. “It’s what a gentleman would do.”

Lucien grinned wryly. “And what do you know of gentlemen?”

“Well for one, I know I’ve walked farther with more alcohol in my body. Thank you for the wine. Less thank yous for the overbearing concern. Now are you going to walk me to the Sanctuary or not? I don’t claim to know much about gentlemen, but I know not all assassins are as ill-mannered as you. Why I saw Mathieu the other day, and he would have--“

“You don’t know anything about Mathieu,” Lucien hissed, his eyes growing narrow at the Breton’s name. As though on impulse, he had seized hold of Nim again and clenched his palm tightly around her arm.

“Take your hand off of me,” she demanded. Once more, she pried herself away from Lucien’s grasp, this time not so gently. The shadow darkening her as as he loomed sent a trail of goosebumps prickling along her skin. A knot began to twist in her stomach, and she felt extremely foolish for having stayed down in his fort for so long. “And don’t hiss at me again. You’re not a snake or a cat, okay? Whatever imitation you’re attempting is awfully unflattering.”

Lucien combed his hair back along his temple. In a second, his cool expression returned, his mouth just the whisper of smile. “As your Speaker, you should know that my only concern is to keep you safe tonight. Don’t be such a silly thing, Nimileth.”

“You have a rather strange definition of safety.”

“And you’re too clever to behave so recklessly.”

“And so?” she crossed her arms over her chest, and stared up at him. His eyes were endless. A swallowing black. A ravenous black. Suddenly, she understood. “You dirty son of a mudcrab! What, you want me to stay here? With you?” She laughed at that suggestion, the sound piercing, and the roll of her voice sent Lucien's temper into a terrible flare. Still laughing and shaking her head, Nim didn’t see how he flinched and ground his teeth to restrain himself from pressing her up into the wall right then and there.

“Is this what you did with your previous recruits?” Nim continued with a sly nip in her eyes. “Attack them in the forest, invite them for wine, and watch silently while they sing about fruit? You really think that’s how this works, huh. Lazy, boy.” She shook her head and tutted. “Where’s the romance these days?”

She continued with that cruel little smile on her cruel little mouth, and Lucien clenched his fists tighter away from view as she spoke. Who was she, talking to her Speaker with such derision? Did she think herself above him? And here she was mocking him, testing him even after what had happened tonight. The silly girl. She was so far out of her depths, she couldn’t even see the surface.

Lucien took a step forward, and Nim pushed herself against the wall behind the hanging ladder to keep distance between them. She smelled the beer on his lips and stiffened again the stone at her back. One of his hands had returned to her shoulder squeezing gently against the bone there. The other was flat against the wall beside her head.

“Step away from me, please,” she said, her voice calm despite the blood pounding in her ears. As he drew in closer, she felt herself sobering quickly. Over his shoulder, she could make out the shadowed arch across the room that lead into the fort. When they had entered, he told her it was filled with traps. Was he lying? Had he anticipated this? Nim debated her odds at making it through them intoxicated and in a panic and quickly discarded the idea.

“You’ll only hurt yourself if you leave at this hour. With all those marauders and miscreants about, why risk it?” He said, his voice hoarse and the blaze in his eyes not at all matching the concern of his words. His warm breath blew softly against the bridge of her nose.

“S'not terribly welcoming right here either,” she replied with a strangulated laugh and scratched at her neck, pulling on the chain of her amulet so hard it hurt. “I- I thought you said you didn’t want anything from me.”

Lucien ignored her and snaked a hand up her neck and into her hair. He pulled her closer, close enough that she felt his heart beating against his chest through the thin fabric of his ripped shirt, a rapid beat almost as frantic as hers.

She looked up at him. “I was wrong, wasn’t I?”

So this is what she had been warned of, and this is how far she let herself fall into his trap unwittingly. How foolish she was to think herself invincible, to think the worst of it had passed. She shuddered as he combed another wisp of hair over her ear. He brought his mouth beside it and whispered.

“Timid, little Nimileth. Admit it. You want to keep fighting, don’t you?”

Her mind settled on two ideas. One of fire and one of flesh. The former was sure to give her enough time to clamber up the ladder if not also invoke the Wrath of Sithis. If she made it out, she could cast an invisibility spell and be out of sight before Lucien could smother the flames on his shirt. But then again, she had underestimated his prowess as a fighter before. She was stealthier, maybe, but it was no match for his speed or strength. Having fought him once tonight already, she knew he was no easy mark and doubted he would be half as gentle if he caught her this time.

The latter… well. The latter option was exactly what he wanted.

She looked into his eyes, and they were endless burrows of hickory bark so full of malice that she could feel them piercing her skin. _But it’s just flesh_, she told herself remembering what Vicente had said of Lucien and his carnal interests. _It’s just flesh_, and perhaps that would be enough for him to grow bored of her as it did with Antoinetta. _It’s just flesh_, and she would not be his victim, and this would not be her defeat. It was the price of their little game and the only cost to her would be the rest of this pointless, wasted night.

“So,” Nim began with a swallow. She cleared her throat and licked at the salt of her lips. “Are you going to tell me what the price of wine was tonight, or are we going to keep doing this little dance?”

Lucien looked at her expectantly, and Nim’s muscles tensed. Despite the hunger in his moonless eyes, he waited for her to move first. He waited for her to give in.

Her stomach lurched and her blood rose to fevered heat, radiating through her skin until her hands trembled beside her. Her veins felt like fire in her arms, and Nim could think of nothing more than burning the Speaker to ash where he stood. She reached up and grabbed his collar, envisioning the cotton fabric going up in a column of flame, but instead she pulled him down to meet her lips and sighed with all the weight of Nirn leaving in her breath.

In a blur, Lucien had her pinned against the wall, drawing her legs up around his waist before she could process the movement of her mouth on his. His tongue worked along the edge of her jaw, down her neck, across her collarbone before she realized they had even kissed at all.

Was this her body in his arms, leaning its head back, submitting? And what was that sensation rising in her blood alongside boiling rage?

There was nothing gentle in Lucien’s touch as he held her. Where she was met with passion, she found also anger and a desperate need to consume. Her own performance began to startle her. A minute ago, she was ready to burn the Speaker to a pile of soot and now she was pulling on his hair, mewling against his neck like a cold, lost kitten.

Was she crying, or was she laughing as she writhed against him, watching through slitted eyes as the motion of her hips blew his pupils wide open and wild?

Another whirlwind flash, and she heard the shatter of glass ringing from all around her. Lucien slammed her down onto the the alchemical desk and hovered above her, tearing at the final threads keeping her shirt in one piece. His hands were upon her, grasping and kneading, and hers were just as soon upon him. She worked clumsily at the drawstring of his trousers, freeing him from his restraint, but before she could do any further, Lucien grabbed her wrists and pulled them away.

Instead, he travelled down the exposed skin of her stomach, his hands dipping below the waistband of her smallclothes. Nim's breath hitched, heavy in her throat, and she arched her body, ground it against his exploring fingers. She watched, terrified and exhilarated, as Lucien lowered himself between her thighs, and she threw her head back to choke on the whimpers of pleasure that dared escape her. When at last Lucien returned to her mouth, she caught him between her legs, wrapping them around his waist as she forced his trousers down past his hips. 

She engulfed him in her arms, and he her, and through it all she wondered, how did she find herself beneath him, accepting him? How would she hate herself for it in the morning?

* * *

Later, the room was still and quiet save Lucien’s slowing breaths, hot and heavy on her shoulder blade as they lay together on the mattress. Nim blew a strand of hair away from her face and nestled into the pillow below her head. If she left now, would he chase her? 

Lucien grazed a finger along the length of her torso, tracing the outline of her waist, her ribcage, up to the curve of her neck. “I’ve never met anything like you,” he whispered at her ear and pulled the thin white sheet over her naked body. The fabric was cool against her skin.

“Really?” she asked wryly. “You must not get out much.”

He chuckled.

Nim rolled onto her side and felt his heartbeat slow against her back as they settled into his small, rickety bed. His arms encircled her waist, hands roaming slowly across the damp skin of her breasts as he pulled her tighter against him, still searching, still hungry. Nim stared across the room into the black hallway leading out of his chamber.

“Do you remember the night we met?” Lucien asked. Nim released a faint, tepid sigh.

“How could I forget?”

“You let me chase you across Cyrodiil only to lead me right into your house. You were so small and afraid then. I could have taken you right there on your bed. Cut you open, painted something beautiful in your blood, and watched as Sithis claimed your soul.” He laid a peck on her neck and pulled her against him. “Sometimes I dream of how it would have happened that night in Anvil. If only the tenants did not bind us.”

“You could have done that tonight if you really wanted to. Like you said, I attacked you first.”

“The night isn’t over.” Lucien rose onto his elbow and lifted her chin to face him. His playful smirk was met with eyes that betrayed nothing. Whatever fire he thought he saw in them moments ago as she clung to him with teeth tearing new scars into his shoulder had been doused and smothered to ash. He sighed. “The Night Mother spoke highly of your gift when she asked us to find you. Finally, I see it in the flesh.”

“I doubt this is what the Night Mother had in mind when she spoke of my talent,” Nim yawned, her voice weary from keeping up with his cloying banter. “But I won’t go down easy if you try that on me again, you know.” She burrowed deeper into the pillow and pressed thought from her mind. If guilt came for her, it would have to find her tomorrow.

“I know, dear Sister,” he crooned, and pet her softly. “I know.”

Lucien laid a light kiss on the corner of her mouth before returning to the mattress. He sidled up against her back and ignored the dull ache that burned within his chest. When his lids grew heavy and fluttered closed, all he saw were Nim's callous eyes staring back at him, impossibly fathomless and darker than night. He fell asleep with his hands resting on her chest, feeling the gentle beat of it beneath his palm.

When the Speaker awoke, he found his bed empty. And had the scent of bergamot and blackberry not lingered in the small indent beside him, he would have sworn she was simply another dream from the Void sent to haunt him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. I don’t want to admit how many hours I spent watching videos of people playing lyre while writing this.
> 
> On a darker note, the latter half of this chapter was very hard for me to write because it is supposed to be uncomfortable. I had this scene in mind for some time but kept getting icked out and rewriting it to be less disturbing. Still it was difficult to crank out. 
> 
> As the author, I don't want to explain myself too much, but I do appreciate feedback. I wanted to stay true to Nim's character. She is flawed and naiive and Lucien is not a hero in this story. It’s not supposed to be a romantic or tender moment, and I don’t think it was written that way.
> 
> Just to clear the air.


	21. Scorn and Hollow

**Chapter 21: Scorn and Hollow**

Vicente stretched his body in a long arch as he rose from the stone slab in his quarters. It had been the first time all week since he had a proper piece of solitude in which to meditate. His feet hit the cold stone tile and he felt like a sharpened knife, a new zest in his step as he walked toward his dresser to prepare for the coming day. Despite no longer needing to sleep, the vampire found that maintaining a regular habit of quieting the mind did wonders for his mental clarity. Now, however, he was feeling a bit peckish, and the bottled blood sitting at his desk would simply not do. Not with all this newfound vigor. It was still well before sunrise and his teeth itched for something fresh.

He opened the door of his quarters and found Antoinetta leaning against the far wall. Her eyes lit up eagerly as she approached him.

“You’re up early,” Vicente nodded toward the girl with a wary smile.

“Same is true for you,” she chirped.

“I never truly sleep, Sister.”

“Well, I know that actually,” she beamed. “I was waiting for you.”

“Oh?” Vicente raised a brow. “What for? Have you completed your contract?”

“Mmm,” Antoinetta hummed and swiped a blonde lock behind her ear. She rocked back on her heels and gave a little shrug. “Not exactly.”

“Then how may I serve you?”

“I was just thinking about my mark, this old man in Bleaker’s Way. Is that really the only job for me?” She asked, her voice light and betraying a faint disappointment. “I mean, it seems so plain and easy.”

Vicente crossed his arms and leaned backward against the stone wall. “I’m not sure I’m following your line of thought, Sister. Are those grounds for a complaint?”

“It’s not a complaint. It’s just that…” The girl rocked her head side to side and sighed as though searching deeply for the right words. “Can’t I have something more challenging?”

He lowered his forehead into his palm and shook his head. “Antoinetta, we’ve discussed this.”

The blonde scrunched her face and huffed. “I’ve been here for over a year now, and I’m still a lowly slayer. If I don’t challenge myself, I’ll never improve! I know I’m capable of more than frail, old men!”

“There is more to a contract than the mark itself. Regardless of whether he’s old or young, you must move with dexterity and finesse to remain out of suspicion.”

“He’s lame in one leg,” she pouted. “I don’t need to be a Khajiit acrobat to maneuver about him.”

“And so?” Vicente shrugged. “I assume you have a proposal for me given that mischievous twinkle in your eyes.”

Antoinetta grinned widely.

“Teinaava was telling me about a contract that Ocheeva mentioned to him in passing. The noble visiting his mother right here in Cheydinhal. Don’t you think that would be perfect chance to demonstrate how much my skills have improved?”

“Certainly not,” Vicente replied flatly. “I have it under authority that he was an accomplished Defender of the Fighters Guild in his youth. That is a dangerous contract, my dear, hence why I had it reserved for someone of Teinaava’s rank.”

Antoinetta pouted again, and though Vicente was not without sympathy, he was unwilling to budge on this topic. Antoinetta showed much promise as an assassin. She was quick with her dagger and a bendy little creature that could fit into all sorts of nooks and crevices, but that did not place her on par with a professionally trained fighter.

Her enthusiasm held steady and she bounced up and down behind Vicente as he walked toward the main hall. “Please, Vicente? Please, please, please with cream and sugar?”

“Antoinetta, my dear,” he sighed, “with time and training I have no doubt you will surpass all of my expectations of you, but as of now you are simply not ready for an assignment as dangerous as this.”

“But I know I can do it,” she insisted, her shrill squeal loud enough to wake someone sleeping in the nearby living quarters. Vicente turned to face her and beckoned for her to lower her voice. She continued in a faint whisper. “If only you’d give me the chance to prove myself.”

He gave her a sideways look. “Prove it to me by completing your contract as stated and then returning to me unharmed.”

The rattling of the well grate alerted Vicente to the arrival of another assassin well before Antoinetta noticed that a figure had begun its descent down the ladder. Vicente flared his nostrils. The scent of old blood wafted through the air. He stiffened briefly, attempting to put words to a subtle _familiarity_ in the odor.

Nim walked into the main hall from the bottom of the well entrance and startled upon seeing the pair of assassins, not expecting anyone to be up when it was still the dark hours of morning. She took a few steps closer, waving cautiously so as not to seem like she was intruding on their conversation. 

In the light of the brazier, Vicente could see her clearly, hair flowing wildly around her and dark skin colored by patches of rusted blood. She was dressed in an outfit made for a man twice her size, her usual attire. Vicente had come to expect such an appearance from their newest member

“Good morning,” Nim called out, accepting that there was no way she could skirt passed unseen given Vicente’s keen senses. 

“Nim, what a welcome return.” His smile faltered as she stepped closer. The iron-rich aroma clung to her despite the clean clothing. And then it hit him. The familiarity. The smell of someone else's blood upon her skin. Of someone else he knew _very_ well.

Vicente stood frozen. His nerves tingled across his face.

“Is that Lucien’s shirt?”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous.” Nim waved him off with a rasping laugh as though he had just asked if she were wearing a shirt spun from gold. “We all know our Speaker owns nothing but a single pair of black robes.”

To someone with a less trained eye, her dismissive response would have appeared completely casual, but Vicente caught the subtle twitch at the corner of her mouth, the spike of fear that flashed across her eyes. Suspicion simmered in his gut. 

“Ah,” he stammered out. “My mistake.” He turned toward Antoinetta and palmed himself internally upon seeing the wide-eyed expression on her face. She looked Nim up and down, face contorting with confusion. 

“What are the two of you up to at this hour anyway?” Nim asked, shifting beneath Antoinetta’s probing stare.

“I’m discussing a contract with Vicente,” Antoinetta replied with what Nim assumed was a grin, but the Breton’s quivering lips and squinted eyes distorted the expression into an awkward grimace.

“Anything erm, exciting?”

“No, just a feeble old man,” she huffed, making no attempt to hide her irritation, and she pushed her bottom lip forward into a pout.

“You and me both, Sister. There seems to be a strong hatred for them this season.”

“At least your old man was in a fortress filled with trained mercenaries. My mark raises sheep and lives alone. _And_ he has a lame leg.”

Vicente shook his head and tutted lightly. “Our Speaker should be delivering more contracts to us soon, Antoinetta. I’m sure he will bring something more to your liking, but as we have discussed, you must finish the task at hand first. The Night Mother demands it.”

Antoinetta’s shoulders drooped in resignation. “Fine.”

“Did you say Lucien’s coming?” Nim asked, her tone while inquisitive betrayed an inkling of anxiety. Vicente nodded and watched her reaction closely. Antoinetta did much the same.

“Ocheeva and I were expecting him last night.” His eyes followed the crinkle of her forehead and when she spied his scrutinizing stare, she dropped her expression to a flat, rigid slate. He raised a brow. “You didn’t happen to see him on the road, did you?”

“No,” came her clipped response. “There was something far more interesting that I was hoping to discuss with you though. I haven’t plans to leave the Sanctuary until I meet with Ocheeva. You’ll find me when you’re done here?”

“Soon,” he replied with a skeptical squint. “Don’t go far.”

* * *

It wasn’t a long wait. The living quarters were dark and filled with the sounds of slumber, but with the aid of her night eye, Nim changed freely. She had just enough time to retrieve a clean set of robes from her trunk and strip out of Lucien’s clothing when she heard the door softly open and close behind her.

“Nimileth,” Vicente whispered faintly from a few paces away.

She slipped her robe over her head, not fast enough to hide the thin, red trail of scratches along her shoulder, the finger shaped bruises encircling her bicep.

Vicente cleared his throat and looked away. “When you’re ready.”

They made their way down to his quarters in silence, ignoring the unsettled glares that Antoinetta cast in their direction as they passed her in the hall. Nim noticed how the vampire clenched his fist the whole way down.

Once inside, she took a seat at his table. Vicente closed the door.

“Listen, there’s something very important that I must talk to you about. I received a peculiar letter, and I think you may be just the one to help me. I have it here.” Nim dug into her pocket and pulled out the folded parchment. “It’s so strange. I found it on my-”

“You know what I’m going to ask you.”

She looked up and met the vampires stern gaze. He stood beside her, leaning forward on his palms which rested flat on the table.

“Of course, I know what you’re going to ask. You weren’t exactly discreet, Vicente. And in front of Antoinetta of all people! Do you want her to dislike me even more?” She shook her head firmly and jabbed a finger down on the letter. “But that’s the beside the point. Look, this letter arrived for me-”

“What did he do to you?” Vicente reached out and turned Nim’s head to the side, inspecting her neck for more bruises.

Nim pulled away slowly, stunned by the level of concern tupon his face. He rolled the sleeve of her robe up in search of more marks and signs of injury, and dumbfounded, Nim let him.

“Show me what Lucien did to you,” he said, nearly a growl. His normally pink eyes glowed bright crimson with fury and if Nim wasn’t so taken aback by the earlier outburst of worry, she might have found herself scared by his feral appearance.

“What’s gotten into you all of the sudden?” She asked, eyes wide and startled. Nim had never seen him so serious, so filled to the brim with rage. If she knew anything about having parents, she might even consider his behavior paternal. But he was not her father, and she despised being treated like a child.

“He attacked you. I smelled the blood. I saw the scars.” He hissed through gritted teeth, squeezing on her wrist. “Show them to me.”

Nim took a deep breath and released it softly through pursed lips. “Vicente,” she started, removing his hand gently from her arm. “I would like to have a conversation with you, but I will not do so when you insist upon snarling and trying to probe at me.”

She attempted to pull away, but the Breton held firm. She furrowed her brows in irritation and let a blue light wash over her. Upon recognizing the dissipating aura of a strong healing spell, Vicente released her.

"What are you doing?" He asked, eyes wide in confusion. "Why are you trying to hide evidence of the assault?"

“There,” she stated firmly. “Now there’s nothing left to see. Can we talk now?”

Vicente pounded his fist against the table. “Damn it, Nim! Why are you trying to protect him! You don’t need to be scared. By Sithis, I’ll carve his eyes out if that’s what it takes for him to keep his bloody-”

“Vicente!” Nim wanted to make it through this confrontation without shouting, but the Vampire was clearly out for blood. In his current state of rage, he seemed unreachable.

“Vicente,” she lowered her voice and reached out for his hand only to be swatted away. She held his gaze for as long as she could, and he stared back with fierce intensity as though trying to pry the truth out through her pupils.

“Can you sit?” She asked, though the question was more of a plea. “I need to know that you will be calm if I am to tell you...” her voice cracked and she quickly cleared her throat. “If I am to tell you what happened.”

The falter of her voice was all he needed to hear to piece it together, and Nim knew what he had just realized from the staggered expression warping his face. Vicente’s eyes widened and she withered beneath his wounded look. Suddenly, he understood.

“Don’t tell me that it’s true.” His voice fell to barely a whisper. He stepped away from her and shook his head, slowly at first and then violently as he ran his fingers through the hair at his temples. “No. No, you must be joking, Nim. What in Oblivion were you thinking? After what I told you about his past, after everything he did to Lorise. Have you grown mad?”

“You don’t know what happened!" she cried out. "Let me explain it, please.” She followed after the vampire as he paced the room, reaching out to grasp at the loose fabric of his shirt.

“I smell him on you,” he snarled. “You _reek_.”

Nim bit her lip until it pained her.

“And the shirt!” Vicente threw his hands against his face and groaned bitterly. “Oh, now I understand it.”

“Understand what? You don’t even know what happened!” 

“Exactly how else am I supposed to interpret this? You come covered in our Speaker’s blood and then you claim he didn’t attack you-”

“I never said that."

“-but then you refuse to show me the wounds he inflicted on you. You covered it. You hid them.” Each word was spat like a twisting blade, carving through her chest. “Why in the Sithis’ name were you wearing his shirt, Nim? Why?”

She took a small breath to regain her composure, thinking of the right place to start. Vicente’s unprecedented rage had left her unusually timid and she stammered a bit before speaking. “He- he offered it to me because, um... he had cut mine away. We were in the forest when he-”

“I just want to hear you admit it, damn it! I don’t want a Godsforsaken play by play of the liaison!”

“Admit what, Vicente? Let me finish,“ she begged.

“You don’t know Lucien like I do," he barked. "You don’t know what he’s capable of, but now look, you’ve opened the door for him, and he’s sunk his claws deep. He’s pulling you toward him, and you’re lying to me to protect him. To think he’s already gotten to you. I can’t-”

Nim’s defenses flared at the notion that Lucien had somehow seduced her, that he had any crumb of influence over her because of what happened last night. She ground her teeth and shot Vicente a withering look.

“Okay, I’ll admit it,” she snapped at him, throwing her hands up into the air. “We slept together. Is that what you wanted to hear? He fucked me.”

Vicente scrunched his face and glared at Nim with eyes full of disdain, a look so menacing only a dead man could possess it.

“Words cannot describe how incredibly disappointed I am to hear this from you,” he said, low and muted, though Nim could feel the scorn in his voice as though it had burned her. He looked down, eyes blazing, and Nim couldn’t tell wether it was disgust or anger with which he regarded her.

“Vicente, I don’t know what to tell you," she lamented, desperation clogging up her throat. "He caught me off guard as I was returning to the Sanctuary.”

“What on Nirn does that even mean? How? You were supposed to be on a contract. Did you go to him? Is this an affair you’ve been having behind everyone’s back? Did he -”

“He was following me,” she finally spat out. “I only realized when I was nearing the gates to Cheydinhal, but he could have been trailing me all the way from Anvil. I- I attacked him, not knowing who it was of course, and I tried to run, but he was faster. Stronger too. He took me down with a poisoned blade and by the Gods, if he were truly someone sent after me, I would have been killed.”

“He what?” Vicente had stopped pacing his room and stared at Nim, completely nonplussed. His sudden turn to shock stirred another flare of anger within Nim. If only he had let her say her piece in the first place, this whole quarrel would have been avoided!

“He followed me. Me, Vicente. Lucien. Followed. Me!” She jabbed herself in the chest so Vicente would have no doubts to who she was referring.

His face contorted in confusion. “But I don’t understand how he went from attacking you to taking you to bed.”

“I will finish now, and you will listen.” Nim plopped herself into the chair at the table and motioned for Vicente to join. “After sensing that I was being stalked, I attacked. He retaliated. I was already pinned on the ground with a blade at my throat before I could see that it was him. Bloody mudcrab started laughing at me as though it were all a joke!

"We had cut each other up badly, and both of us were losing blood fast. I had shot him with one of my hunting arrows. They’re tipped with a poison of drain fatigue, and he struck me with a knife enchanted with a silence spell. We would have bled out right there in the forest if he didn’t take me to Fort Farragut. I spent some hours tending to him and brewing a potion to dispel my silence so I could heal him. And when all was done, I made to leave, but my clothing was ruined. I didn't want anyone in the Sanctuary to be concerned so when he offered me a clean set, I took it.

"And then he asked me to stay for a bit longer. At first, I denied, but then…”

Vicente raised a brow at the Bosmer’s guilty expression. “Then?”

“He offered me wine.”

Vicente groaned and palmed his forehead. “Sithis’ balls, Nim. Wine? That’s all it took?”

“Not just any wine,” she corrected quickly and raised a finger into the air. “Argonian Bloodwine, okay. You can’t get it outside of Blackmarsh unless you have a direct connection to a supplier. And the year! Dear gods it must have cost a small fortune.”

“Oh, not any wine, no. Let’s just fuck anyone in possession of a classy vintage, shall we?”

“Well, damn I was surprised he had good taste in something besides blades.”

“You’re a foolish child, Nimileth. Gods, how naïve can you be?” Vicente slammed his palms against the table, causing Nim to jump a few inches in her seat. “What did you think his intentions were? You think Lucien would be such a connoisseur if he didn’t know wine was such a pathetic weakness of yours?”

Vicente watched as Nim’s face fell slack. He could see her nostrils flaring and suddenly grew aware of how harsh his tone and how cruel his words had been. The recognition, however, did little to quiet his rage.

“Well, I see where we stand then,” Nim stated and abruptly bolted up from her chair with a loud screech. By now, they must have awoken half the sanctuary with their slamming and yelling. “I had no idea you felt so strongly about my drinking habits.”

“And then what?”

“No, why should I tell you more when you’ll only insult me?” She turned toward the door, shoving her letter in her pocket, but Vicente quickly ran forward and blocked her path. He stretched an arm out to keep her from reaching the handles.

“And. Then. What,” he seethed

Nim stared intently at the door with pursed lips, as though attempting to set it ablaze. Finally she turned her glare to Vicente.

“And then I was drunk, alright? Lucien told me he didn’t want me to walk back to the Sanctuary in such a state. He blocked me from leaving just like you’re doing right now.”

Vicente’s eyes widened. Suddenly, he didn’t look so angry, rather a little ashamed.

Nim too was not as angry with him as she had been moments ago. She knew why Vicente mistrusted the Speaker so. His reasoning had been well justified, and she knew he only wanted to keep her safe. And what had she done? Thrown herself right into Lucien’s trap.

“Lucien wouldn’t let me return to the Sanctuary when I tried to leave. I knew what he wanted. Hell, I’d be lying to you if I said I didn’t have the doubt when he invited me for wine. So, I gave in to him. I thought maybe he’d leave me alone if I made it easy, that maybe he’d grow bored with me just like he did with the others.”

Vicente had moved away from the door and relaxed his shoulders, a sullen frown darkening his face.

“Nim,” he let out an exasperated sigh. “Forgive my outburst, please. I didn’t realize-“

She shook her head. “Don’t apologize to me. I’d rather you look at me with anger and disgust than with pity. It was foolish. I know that, Vicente. I shouldn’t have stayed as long as I did. I understand why you feel the way you do, but I was only doing what I thought was best in the moment.”

“And now?” He asked. “What do you think now?”

“I’m unsure." She looked to him, frown crooked and eyes heavy. "I didn’t mean to hurt you in anyway.”

“Of course not,” Vicente replied and slumped down into the nearest chair. “But you’re alright? You’re unharmed? Nim, I can protect you. You needn't be afraid. I can speak with him.”

“No,” she shook her head again. “I’m fine, and it’s done. Vicente, be disappointed in me if you must, but it wasn’t like what happened with Lorise.”

The room lay in silence as Vicente studied her face. It dropped the longer he stared.

“I understand now,” he said softly.

“Vicente-”

“Leave me, please, Nim. I need space to collect my thoughts.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Please.”

She left after that, closing the door gently behind her before darting away.

Vicente drummed his fingers on the table as he thought of what he could possibly do beside watch her spiral away from him as Lucien dragged her into his fort like another treasure to lay claim to. Vicente couldn’t remember the last time he felt so useless. If he thought he was hungry for blood before, he was ravenous now.

* * *

Nim paced back and forth in the training room, still smoldering from the fight with Vicente. Eventually, she decided that waiting around for Ocheeva to wake up so she could receive the reward from her contract was not worth the risk of running into Lucien should he arrive. She left for the chapel, grateful to find it empty, and offered silent prayer to Dibella. She asked the divine to forgive the wicked deeds she had committed in the recent hours. Surely it had been some act of sacrilege. 

Afterwards, she scurried off to Newlands Lodge in the shopping district of Cheydinhal, eager for a bath and a hot breakfast. She would simply have to return after she visited Bruma, and Nim forced herself to stop wishing that she had gone that route in the first place. Dwelling did nothing to make the future brighter, and if she didn’t have the hope of a promising future, what did she have to strive for at all?

After paying, she made her way to the inn’s bath and without meaning to, fell asleep in the tub. The warm water had lulled her mind into hazy dream, and when she awoke it had turned cold, engulfing her pruned body in murky suds. She rose, greeted by the pale light shining in through the window and gathered up her towel and clothing. She hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before and the heaviness in her limbs reminded her of the fact with each movement. Groaning, she dried herself off, and then headed down to the bar to purchase dried goods for her days travel.

“Hey,” a woman’s voice spoke up from beside her. Nim turned to find Lorise dressed in a plain linen dress. She carried a canvas sack overflowing with the green leaves of various vegetables.

“Hi,” Nim responded nervously. “What are you doing here?” She swiped her wet hair over her shoulder, revealing a darkened spot of damp fabric on the front of her robes. She hadn’t run into her Dark Brothers and Sisters often while travelling the surface world, and the sight of them in such mundane settings left her particularly uneasy.

“I live here,” Lorise said with a playful smile. “You don’t. What’s your excuse?”

She shrugged nonchalantly and leaned an arm against the counter top as she spun a pretty lie. “Just needed some supplies for the road. I’m collecting lavender and ginseng in these parts before the weather gets too cold and the leaves wither away. They grow better in the Nibenay Basin than anywhere else in Cyrodiil. Foxglove too, but it’s rather late in the season to harvest nectar. There are several tributaries of the Niben Bay where it’s still plenty abundant along the water banks, like the Reed River just south of town. I might try my luck there this afternoon, time willing.”

Lorise raised her brows in pleasant surprise as the small Bosmer prattled on about the health benefits of fresh ginseng.

“Wow, that was impressive!" she beamed. "You would have had me fooled had I not known better. How did you come up with that so fast?”

Nim cocked her head, looking a touch prideful. “Nothing I said was false. That's the best kind of lie you can tell. All of those plants are found in the Nibenay Basin and I did collect some lavender yesterday.”

The older woman grinned with admiration. “Who would have thought alchemists would have such detailed alibis? Now are you leaving town or staying in?

“Leaving town,” she admitted.

“Oh? And just what ingredients will you collect next?”

Nim turned to accept her sack of fruits from the Dunmer publican and when she looked back to Lorise, she found her staring with hands akimbo. She pointed at the sack of groceries that Nim was slipping into her pack and shook her head with a disappointed frown.

“Don’t tell me that’s your breakfast."

“It’s supposed to be,” Nim replied, suddenly conscious of the sugary meal.

“No, absolutely not. Apples, apples, apples. What are you, a horse? Come, have a proper breakfast with me.” Lorise raised her own grocery bag and shook it gently in the air. “I just restocked my pantry. Come on.”

Nim shifted on her foot. Lorise's teal eyes sparkled back. 

“Okay,” she replied nonchalantly as though she and Lorise met for brunch on a regular basis. Slinging her pack over her shoulder, she followed the woman out into the morning air.

Having breakfast with the Grand Champion of the Arena while in the Sanctuary was often unavoidable, and the surrealness of the situation had only just begun to wear off. And now here she was, invited her for a meal at the Grand Champion’s private residence… well, how could anyone say no?

* * *

The house at the end of the residential road stood tall and blanketed in green ivy, with the casual elegance that much of Cheydinhal possessed. After they entered and began a brief tour, it took a long time for Nim to decide what word could describe the feeling of Lorise’s home. Modest did not say enough. The walls were mostly bare save a few wall sconces and mounted blades. Ceramic pots of desiccated flowers sat above the hearth with an assortment of well-used candles.

It shouldn’t have been at all surprising given what Nim knew of Lorise from conversation, but she couldn’t help thinking that an Arena Grand Champion _should_ be living in a much more glamorous estate. There should be statues and lavish silk tapestries. Mounted minotaur heads and bear pelts galore. Everything about the house seemed to serve some practical purpose, and there was little in way of décor. It was plain and minimalist, the bareness of someone who once had everything taken away and had since decided that nothing would ever be taken from them again.

“How do you like your eggs?” Lorise called from the second-floor landing. Nim glanced up from the rack of swords on the wall.

“Scrambled?” Her voice pitched to a high note.

The woman chuckled. “Are you asking me a question?”

“Scrambled,” Nim repeated again with certainty. “Say, aren’t all Grand Champions supposed to have a portrait commissioned as part of their reward.”

“Aye,” Lorise replied. “I had one painted.”

Nim glanced around the walls of the second floor as she ascended the stairs. “Where is it?”

“Oh, up in the attic somewhere.”

“The Attic? How come?”

“Would you like a portrait of yourself hanging in your house?”

“No,” she said. “I suppose I wouldn’t. I can hardly stand a mirror most days. But then again, I’ve done nothing worthy of a portrait anyway. Perhaps I’d feel differently if I had.”

“Eh,” Lorise shrugged dismissively. “It’s not a particularly good work either. I know I should be grateful, but the portraitist took a few too many creative liberties to my liking. Like my breasts, much too large. They were sagging watermelons, and I wasn’t even wearing something form fitting! I was in _armor_ for Gods’ sake.” She shook her head in earnest disappointment as she mumbled something below her breath that Nim could not quite make out. “Normally Rythe Lythandas would be the hired portraitist, but he was unavailable. Apparently, he’s been missing for some time now.”

“He is?" Nim queried "That’s a travesty! His paintings of the Great Forest are known to be the finest depictions of the Cyrodiilic landscape.” She walked toward the kitchen and leaned against the wall as she watched Lorise fry eggs. “And even his earlier work from when he was still living in Morrowind are breath-taking. He doesn’t get enough credit for those. It’s like the foliage comes alive every time I pass it in my foyer.”

“You own some of his work?” Lorise asked, the surprise clear as day in her voice, and Nim wanted to pinch herself. Rythe Lythandas was the most famous painter in all of Cyrodiil. Every one of his paintings shone with a brilliance that rivaled Masser and Secunda in full. His work was coveted by the rich and noble, and Nim was neither.

“Er, yes. I found them in the basement of the home I moved into. Must have been forgotten.”

“Well lucky for you, but who would be foolish enough to part with those?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Nim replied as calmly as she could manage.

“He lives in Cheydinhal too, did you know?”

Nim shook her head.

“Or he did at least. His poor wife. I thought to pay her visit and offer my help, but I haven’t the brains to be a private investigator, I’m afraid. I suppose I am an artist too in some ways. I paint in blood and I like sculpting things, flesh mostly. I don’t do well with puzzles however.”

Lorise set down two plates of eggs, sweet potato, and fried sausage. She reached up toward the rack of hanging spice bundles and pried off a few sprigs of dry elves ear before crushing them in her palm and sprinkling them over the plate. “Grab those mugs, will you?” she grinned. “Let’s sit on the balcony,”

The two women found their seats across from one another as they ate their breakfast and sipped from the piping mugs of coffee. They sat together without speaking for several minutes, listening only to the songs of the morning birds and the rustle of soft breeze through the willows along the riverbank. The town awoke slowly on the streets below them and in the distance, doors creaked open and feet fell heavy against the stone paths.

Nim looked over at Lorise who was sat with her legs crossed and elbows resting on the table as she blew steam off the rim of her mug. Her hair fell with carefree grace around her shoulders, shimmering like polished obsidian. Few knew how to appreciate companionable silence without letting an awkwardness build, but Lorise held a wordless smile like warm honey, and Nim was thankful.

After several more minutes of quiet people-watching, Nim had shown her full appreciation for her hosts meal by finishing everything on her plate and containing her burps.

“I don’t get many visitors,” Lorise sighed softly, her eyes fixed on a mother and daughter walking toward the book store. “Except Vicente and Antoinetta, but even she comes less often these days.”

“I find it hard to believe that you don’t have suitors and lords crawling up the ivy to win your favor.”

The woman chuckled and looked over at Nim curiously. “I think your idea of what my life is like is quite different from the reality. But anyway,” she waved her hand flippantly, “new contract, right? Who is it this time? Is it that noble visiting his mother in town? Teinaava was telling me about it the other day.”

“I haven’t picked one up actually,” Nim confessed, twisting her cup back and forth in her palms. “I’ve other business that I’ve grown lax in. I should see to it before making more commitments.”

“How responsible of you,” Lorise teased gently, and Nim appreciated that she did not attempt to pry into her life outside of the Sanctuary. She continued, resting her head in her hand as she leaned on the table. “Vicente said Lucien was in this morning. He overhead him speaking with Ocheeva. He has something special lined up for you it seems. Probably best not to delay.”

Nim was tempted to ask whether she knew if he had left the Sanctuary or not, but she couldn’t think of a way to say so without arising suspicion or pointing the conversation in Lucien’s direction. And conversation about _him_ was the last thing she wanted. It was plenty obvious that Lorise was aware of the building tension between her and the Speaker, and Nim didn’t want to give the older Bosmer any more reason to bring him up. Thankfully, Lorise continued on.

“I imagine you’ll be making Assassin after this. And then what, I wonder?”

“What do you mean?” Nim asked. “What else?”

A sudden chill crept up Nim’s leg as she tried to answer the question herself. _What else?_

Would she become an Executioner like Vicente and Ocheeva? She imagined herself reading through all of the gruesome desires scrawled upon those little letters that detailed how someone would die. She thought of Mathieu hunched over in tears as he whispered yet another foreboding warning against her ear, and her stomach knotted.

_All we do is kill and kill and kill._

Would her life be like his, broken and empty?

She thought of the Gray Cowl in her pack, it’s secret daedric magic leaching into her blood and staining it with forbidden knowledge. Why could she not bring herself to push the awful power away like she claimed she would? And now, how far would she climb in the ranks of the Dark Brotherhood if she let herself drift off into those darkened waters? To Silencer? To Speaker? _What else? _She shuddered.

Despite the picturesque setting and the warm satisfaction of a fine meal settling in her belly, Nim began to grow queasy. In fact, perhaps it was the beauty surrounding her that left Nim feeling so out of place and sick to her stomach. She watched the sparkling water ripple below the touch of a falling oak leaf and felt as though she were polluting the very air around them.

“What’s wrong?” Lorise asked with a calm concern. “Are you feeling ill? Dervara told me those sausages were fresh.”

“Oh, it’s not my stomach,” Nim quickly corrected. “I’m just a bit tired that’s all.”

“Mmhm,” the older Bosmer hummed skeptically and Nim was reminded of all the suspicious squints that Vicente had given her earlier that morning. Lorise frowned at the girl’s darkening appearance. “Is something bothering you?”

Remembering the letter in her pocket and her unanswered questions from Vicente, Nim nodded. “Well, yes I suppose there is. I really wanted to speak to Vicente about it today, but he seems rather… preoccupied.”

Lorise tensed at the mention of Vicente and tucked her bottom lip beneath her front teeth. She gave a strained squint, as though thinking deeply on whether or not speak. “Is it-” the woman began and quickly shut her mouth. The uneasy expression made Nim inexplicably nervous.

“What’s that?” Nim asked, before becoming quickly aware that the older woman was desperately trying to bite her tongue. Suddenly, Nim found herself tempted to throw herself off the balcony and make a run for the Blue Road as she anticipated what it was that left Lorise in such ambivalence.

“Is it about what happened with Lucien?” Lorise whispered, and immediately regretted the question once she saw the thin, bloodless line forming on Nim’s mouth. “Oh no! I’m so sorry. I misread the situation completely.” She apologized with a profoundly guilty expression. “I thought that was what you were referring to. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Vicente told you about it?” Nim said with venom on her tongue. She looked away, feeling her face flush warm and pink.

“He did,” Lorise replied with a soft squeak, and Nim scoffed despite willing herself to suppress the urge.

“We only spoke what, three hours ago?” The young elf pinched the bridge of her nose and attempted to calm the rising irritation roiling about in the pit of her stomach. She gazed skyward, averting her gaze from Lorise's apologetic frown. “Did he send you to find me? What else does he want to know that I haven’t told him?”

“No, I ran into you by complete accident," she said. "Don’t be mad at him, please. He came to find me early this morning and he looked so upset. I had to pry it out of him. He isn’t the kind to gossip with someone else’s secrets, but he tells me everything. I’m his soulmate.”

Nim made no attempt to hide her displeasure. She should have known word would find its way out of Vicente’s quarters, and sighed in tired resignation.

“Are you upset with me too?” she asked, which drew a wide-eyed expression from Lorise who shook her head quickly. “I can’t handle another argument this morning so I’d rather just by on my way if that is the case.”

“Why would I be mad? I don’t know what happened last night, and you certainly don’t need to apologize to me about it.”

Her response did a little to improve Nim’s mood, who took another sip of her now lukewarm coffee and crossed her arms over her chest, resting them in her lap.

“Vicente is blowing this out of proportion, isn’t he?” she asked, a faint hopefulness in her voice. Lorise’s honest shrug was not the reply she had wanted.

“I think he makes valid points, but Vicente is too intense sometimes,” Lorise began. “He feels everything too strongly.”

“Side-effect of vampirism?”

“No, side-effect of being Vicente.”

“I know he was just looking out for me.”

“He’ll be fine,” Lorise assured her. “He is hurting but only because he feels he should have stopped it from happening somehow. That’s just what he gets for feeling it’s his Godsgiven responsibility to protect everyone.”

Nim stared down at her empty plate with pinched brows. “I didn’t think he would react so strongly. I don’t mean to sound cold, and I’m grateful he cares for me, but I don’t see how it’s any of his business.”

Lorise reached out and gripped her wrist reassuringly. “Don’t worry yourself about it, Nim. He'll be fine, but listen, are you alright? I don’t want to make the same assumptions as Vicente.”

“So then don’t. It’s simple.” The curtness of her reply was not lost on Lorise, and the older woman chewed the inside of her lip before proceeding with caution.

“You don’t… regret what happened?”

Nim shook her head firmly, the exasperation plain in the roll of her eyes. “To regret it is to admit that I’ve done something wrong. I’m fine, really. And look,” she clapped her hands together and then spread them before her dramatically, “I’ve swept the entire ordeal from my mind.”

“I worry about you,” Lorise said softly, taking in the small Bosmer’s hard expression. “There is such thing as being too proud. We’re all mortal and even if you know some advanced spell to make yourself disappear from view, that doesn’t make you invincible.”

They a held a moment of eye contact. Lorise stared with a small, crooked grin and Nim looked on harshly but not nearly as harshly as she wanted.

“Please speak plainly, Lorise. If there is something you wish to tell me then say it.”

“You did it because you thought he would lose interest afterward, didn’t you?”

Nim nodded and scratched at her cheek. “Vicente had told me about Lucien and the women he’s been with. He said Lucien grew bored after the chase was over. You know, once they put out or whatever. He didn’t say it so crassly, but I understood.”

“Oh Vicente,” Lorise sighed. “So old and wise yet somehow equally as dense. A marvel, he is. Lucien didn’t grow bored with Antoinetta because they slept together. He grew tired of her because she’s suffocating.”

“Ah,” Nim frowned. “I see.”

“That’s not what he sees in you.”

“And what would you know of how he sees me then?” She leaned back against the chair with a stifled coolness mellowing the harshness of her features.

“Vicente says it something pure. Like an untapped well. Our Speaker sees you as something to mold, and he wants you all to himself to sculpt and shape as he so desires. He’s possessive like that, and I don’t think you’ve driven him away. I think it only gets worse from here, Sister. You’ve just given him a taste.”

“Well I gave him more than a taste, that’s for sure,” Nim admitted dryly.

Lorise raised a brow purely on reflex. She didn’t know whether or not to smirk at that comment, but the corners of her mouth twitched involuntarily. “So it was like that, huh?”

Nim’s face reddened again and she looked over the balcony rail to avoid giving anything more away. “You can use your imagination.”

“And after, did he snuggle up to you? Did he wrap his arms around you and whisper sweet nothings of the Void and Sithis into your ear?”

"I suppose yes," she said, shrugging casually. "Though I’d hardly consider it romantic. He spoke of how he would have liked to kill me on the day we met. Quite charming, isn’t he?”

“Ah, murder and bloodshed," Lorise grimaced. "That is the pinnacle of romance after all.”

Nim found herself chuckling at the woman’s expression and the laughter did well to relive the tension coiling inside her. “I thought you were into that kind of thing.”

“Vicente may be a vampire and I may be a professional gladiator, but even we know how to separate bloodshed from romance. Passion has many forms and the two ought not to be mixed lest you find yourself in a dangerous ambiguity. There is a fine line between pain and pleasure.”

“I think I’ve had a good lesson in that.”

Nim finished the rest of her cold coffee and stared at the brown granules that remained in the bottom of her cup. This wretched morning had become a bit less miserable with Lorise's company. She offered Lorise a fragile smile.

“That’s not really why I’ve been bothered,” she said faintly. “I wanted to talk to Vicente about something serious. Something personal that’s come into my life recently. I think he may be the only one that could explain it to me.”

“Serious?” Lorise’s eyes widened to perfect circles. “How serious?”

“Well, I’m unsure. I really don’t know what to make of it. I received a letter at my house with a map to a… fortress I’ve come to inherit.”

“So, you received an inheritance? That’s not too abnormal.”

“I’m an orphan,” Nim said, stressing the word. “I have no record of any family. And that’s not the strangest part either. The man who wrote it claims to be a follower of SIthis.”

Lorise raised her brows. “Family is not always bound by blood. Perhaps it is a member of the Dark Brotherhood and they have chosen you to continue their legacy.”

“He made mention of my grandfather,” Nim said with a clear nervousness in her voice.

“Do you have it with you?”

Nim pulled out the letter and slid it over to Lorise. She unfolded it with the map side facing upward and her peach-toned skin paled as she scrutinized the black ink of the drawing. It felt like several minutes passed between them as Lorise’s eyes prowled back and forth across the paper, taking in all the landmarks and distinctive features surrounding the marked lair. When she finally spoke, her voice was low and hoarse as though all the water in her mouth had evaporated.

“This can’t be.” Lorise’s face grew dark with a mix of horror and disbelief.

“What?”

“I’ve been here, Nim,” she croaked out. “I’ve seen this map before.”

Nim cocked her head, the muscles of her forehead twitching as she struggled to form an appropriate expression. “You found a similar copy in your travels? So, you know of this ‘Deepscorn Hollow?’”

“Yes,” Lorise swallowed. “My father gave the same map to me the night our farm was raided. I’m sure of it.”

Nim shifted forward in her seat, her face growing a little wild around the eyes. “Your father was Greywyn?”

“Who?” Lorise looked up with mouth agape and a lifted brow. She looked more pained than worried now. More confused than shocked.

Nim gestured at the letter. “The name of the man who wrote to me. Look on the other side.”

Lorise flipped the note over and read through the message. She pursed her lips tightly until the skin around them lost color and her eyes flickered back and forth across the words.

“I don’t understand this. I don’t understand,” she murmured. “Vero is my father’s name.”

“Your father?” Nim’s eyes shot open so wide that all of her iris was visible. “Could it be the same one?”

Lorise stuttered for a minute and dropped the letter to the table, pushing it away as though it had stung her. “How many could have the same connection to this location? I don’t understand any of this.”

“Did your father ever speak of the Crimson Scars?” Nim pressed despite the growing discomfort in Lorise’s posture. “Does this seem likely at all?”

To her surprise, Lorise nodded. 

“My Father wasn’t a good man. He was good to us. He was always good to us, but he also led us to ruin. In his earlier years he ran with a group of mercenaries. I don’t know what trouble they got into, but it followed him wherever we went.”

“The Crimson Scars sound like more than simple swords for hire.”

“How can I be certain of what band of outlaws he ran with?” Lorise said and her voice was hard though Nim knew it was not directed at her. “It’s been well over two decades since he’s been alive. He and my mother were always on the run from somebody he had wronged in his past. They made the mistake of settling down in my mother’s hometown in Greenshade when she fell pregnant with my younger sister, Callista. They came for us there. Burned down our farm. Killed my mother and my father. My sister and I escaped with nothing.” Lorise shook her head and gave Nim a grim look. “But so what? That explains nothing.”

It was true. The story related little to the contents of the letter, but Nim urged her to continue. “And so you sought out the Deepscorn Hollow when you left?”

“Not until many years later,” she said and shook her head. “I burned the map into my memory, because I knew the chances of keeping it were slim. I ended up using it for tinder to start a fire as we took shelter from the rain. My sister and I were running from everything. Bandits, slavers, wild animals, the forest itself. I found myself in Cyrodiil only six years ago, and I finally sought out the lair down on the beaches of the Topal Bay, but there was nothing in it. It was an abandoned dungeon, very similar to the looks of the Sanctuary here in Cheydinhal now that I think about. There was nothing inside but empty rooms and jails cells and a horrid statue that was shattered to pieces. It had been looted some time ago. I remember being so heartbroken when I found that there was nothing of value there. Nothing that could help me.”

“Nothing,” Nim repeated. A hollow ache churned in her gut.

“Well there was a book,” Lorise confessed. Her eyes flickered with promise for only a moment, “a journal of sorts. I still have it. I could never read much of it because it was so waterlogged when I found it and until now I’ve all but forgotten of its existence. It’s been years since I’ve touched it. I’m fairly certain it’s ruined.

Nim leapt at the brief sliver of hope. “May I see it?” she asked and did her best to contain the enthusiasm that fluttered in her throat.

Lorise shifted cautiously in her seat before standing and making for the door. She returned shortly with a brown leather-bound journal marred by blooms of mold. Lorise found her seat and began to turn the cover.

“Don’t open it,” Nim said quickly as she saw the warped pages stretch with one another and threaten to tear. They must have sealed together when dampened. “A page may rip.”

Lorise frowned. “How else will we read it?”

“I don’t suppose we will. Not today at least, but it may be salvageable with the proper tools.”

“Can you restore something so damaged?” Lorise asked in earnest

“Me?” Nim shook her head, but she knew of master archivists at the University who worked with much older tomes in much worse conditions. “Absolutely not, but I know someone who can. May I take it with me?”

“It might not even be useful,” Lorise said, but passed the journal across the table.

Nim fingered the grooves and warps of the bindings. “Does this mean we are kin by blood?” she asked without looking up.

“I think I would know if I birthed a child from my loins,” the older woman snorted.

“Obviously. I didn’t mean it like that, but Greywyn referred to Vero as my grandfather. You said you have a sister.”

“Yes. Grandfather,” Lorise repeated, a faraway look settling in her eyes. “What could that mean?”

“Well it means your father had a child, and that child--"

“No, Nimileth, I know what a grandfather is, but I only have one sister. It wouldn’t add up. She would have been so young. It--” she grimaced as though tasting something foul. “It can’t be.”

“And why not?”

“The last time we were together was when we were being sold to a group of slavers on the border of Valenwood and Elsweyr. We were destined for Cyrodiil, but we were separated long before we ever reached the province. Last I heard from her, she was working at a brothel in Kvatch. No mention of a child. The timing, the location. I don’t see how it could be. She wasn’t there when I looked for her, and nobody could tell me where she went. I haven’t been able to find her since.”

“Oh,” Nim said and her voice was a whisper so thin she barely heard it.

Lorise smiled despite the heaviness of her eyes. “I told you my life wasn’t always so luxurious.” 

“Well, the mistress of my orphanage always told me I was the daughter of a whore.”

“Yes, well so is a good portion of the population. You’re hardly a minority.”

“Perhaps there were siblings you didn’t know of,” Nim suggested. Lorise shrugged.

“I suppose my father could have had other children before he met my mother.”

A long pause of silence spanned between the next set of exchanged words. The wind rustled the long bending willow branches, and a distant childish laughter ricocheted off the stone of the tall houses. It was an echoing quiet, louder than the background noise. It sounded of reopened wounds and the loss that seeped from them.

Nim spoke again with controlled softness, not wanting to intrude upon the shared silence. “Vicente would know, wouldn’t he? About the Crimson Scars. He’s been in the Dark Brotherhood for two centuries. He must have heard of them. Maybe he knows of a man named Vero or Greywyn who splintered off to form their own faction.”

Lorise turned her head toward the rest of Cheydinhal and watched as her neighbors returned from the market with baskets full of fresh produce. The little girl skipped behind her mother’s skirt clutching a new book in her spindly arms.

“Perhaps he would,” she said, “and what would that tell you? That they existed? That they killed in the name of Sithis? What else do you hope to learn?”

“Anything,” Nim replied, an eagerness in her voice that Lorise had never heard before. “Don’t you want to learn about your father?”

Lorise shook her head. “He’s dead. He gave me life and then ten lifetimes of pain to follow it. What does his past matter to my existence now?”

“That was awfully insensitive of me,” Nim said apologetically.

Lorise gave her head a small shake. “No,” she said, and stretched her arm across the table, motioning for Nim’s hand. “If this letter is true then it means I still have relatives in this world. I should be nothing but grateful.” She squeezed and stared intently at the small hand held between her palms. “You do look like her though, my sister Callista. Have I ever told you that?”

“You have,” Nim admitted. “Except the hair.”

“Right, different shades of red."

"I've always thought my hair more brown than red."

"Well," Lorise shrugged, "you have her eyes, same as my mother's. A mix of brown and green. They're like the trees of western Valenwood in the peak of summer, so dark and lush they look black in passing.”

“You might be looking a little too hard now.”

Lorise chuckled soft and sincere despite the bitter melancholy in her mouth.

“Maybe,” she replied.


	22. Closer

**Chapter 22: Closer**

Before leaving for Bruma, Nim had been convinced by Lorise to accompany the older Bosmer to the Sanctuary and make amends with Vicente but not, however, without a significant amount of convincing on the Grand Champion’s behalf. Nim’s displeasure toward the idea was readily apparent in the hardness of her sideways look, but Lorise had been around Vicente long enough to know he was likely going mad with guilt in his quarters right now. It was only when she allowed Nim to crawl up into the attic hatch and peep the horrendous portrait that had been commissioned of her that Nim agreed to go. Nim walked back to the sanctuary at Lorise’s side, the shadow of a grin playing on her face as she recalled the generous details of the painting with a crude satisfaction.

Lorise shuttled the small Bosmer to Vicente’s chambers with as much discretion as possible, and to Nim’s relief, Lucien was nowhere in sight. Once in the Executioner’s quarters, Lorise wedged herself between the two assassins before either one could mutter a single reconciliatory or quarrelsome word. She motioned for Nim to show Vicente the letter, and after reading it he apologized profusely with a cloying remorse for allowing his anger to control him earlier that morning. Nim responded with a few choice words regarding his loose lips, and only after Lorise demanded that the two either hug or spar and make up were they able to discuss the contents of the letter in any detail. Nim had decided on the latter option and received a sound beating, but she did manage a few good punches to the vampire’s jaw and cheek. Though it hurt her fists far more than it hurt him, she took the small victory with great pride.

Now, Vicente sat across from her, one hand holding the letter and the other tucked between his lover’s palms. Nim held her bloodied hands in a bowl of melting snow to cool the stinging pain of her knuckles as she listened to Vicente tell her all he knew of the mysterious Greywyn.

“The Crimson Scars were not merely a band of mercenaries. They were once Dark Brotherhood members.” His face grew grim as he recalled the name from memories decades old. “Greywyn Blenwyth, the faction’s founder, was convinced that Sithis wanted all of his worshipers to taste blood as they spilled it.”

“You don’t mean…” Lorise started with a flustered look.

“I do,” he said. “He thought the true children of Sithis were those afflicted with vampirism. He sought me out while I was visiting Arquen’s sanctuary in the western reaches of Hammerfell some four decades ago. I was still a Speaker back then.”

Nim contained her gasp when she realized Vicente once was a member of the Black Hand. She didn’t think those were positions one could step down from. The Breton caught sight of the surprise in her eyes and smiled warmly.

“I’ve been in the Dark Brotherhood for over two-hundred years, Nimileth. You didn’t think I always held this position, did you?”

“Who am I to gauge your capacity for paper-pushing,” she shrugged with casual playfulness. “You’re awfully good at it, and it seems a fitting occupation for such a decrepit old man.”

Vicente gave an earthy chuckle and Lorise snorted from beside him. He continued.

“Greywyn approached me during my visit. He was no fool and spoke with great caution and vagary as he hinted toward this idea. At the time, I could tell it was only a sapling in his mind, and when he recognized my disapproval he brushed the whole thing off like it was some fever dream troubling his mind.

But it was clearly much more to him than that, and the idea gnawed away at him in the years that followed. Eventually Greywyn sought to fulfill his plan, and he began to infect other members of our family, some against their will, as part of his plot to turn the whole of the Dark Brotherhood into vampires. The Black Hand was informed of the rising threat by a member of the Crimson Scars. We made the decision to purify the Dark Brotherhood of all members of this splinter group, and when all our dark brothers and sisters that followed Greywyn’s prophecies had been turned to ash, we believed that was the end of it.”

“Purify,” Nim repeated. The word soured on her tongue. “What a lovely turn of phrase.”

“It’s much more than euphemism. It’s an ancient ritual to purge the family of treachery. There had only been one before then, centuries ago in the city of Xith-Izkul,” Vicente explained.

“Not very thorough considering Greywyn escaped,” Nim tutted.

“And my father as well. What of Vero?” Lorise asked with subtle apprehension. “What does this have to do with my father?”

“I don’t know of any Vero Audenius, my love. I’m sorry.”

“What about a Vero of a different last name,” Nim suggested. “What if he changed his name completely?”

Vicente squinted his eyes in thought. “If he was tied to Greywyn, Arquen would be your best chance at finding out. She was Speaker of the sanctuary in Elinhir while he was there.”

“I need to think on it before I write her,” Lorise said with a soft nod. “Let’s see if Nim can find anything useful in the journal first.”

Nim stood from her chair, shaking the water from her hands before she hoisted her pack over her shoulder. “I don’t imagine that will be anytime soon, I’m afraid, but I’ll tell you the first chance I get. Thank you again, Vicente.”

He returned her gracious smile, and the three assassins exchanged parting embraces before Nim left in search of Ocheeva. She found the Argonian woman enjoying a cup of tea in the living quarters. After rewarding the assassin with the sum of septims due and detailing the next contract for a social gathering down in Skingrad, Ocheeva gestured toward a parcel wrapped in brown paper sitting on Nim’s bed.

“It’s your bonus,” she said and took a sip of her tea.

Nim eyed the package suspiciously. It hadn’t been there when she arrived earlier that day, and Ocheeva caught the wariness in her stare.

“Our Speaker left it for you.”

Nim paused, eyes roaming the package as though she could see through the wrapping if she stared hard enough.

“Thank you for letting me know,” Nim said belatedly. “I’ll see you when the contract has been completed.”

Ocheeva nodded and watched curiously as Nim turned and fled the living quarters, leaving the gift on her bed untouched.

* * *

The road through the Heartlands winded up steep incline, and the wind grew abrasive the closer Nim came to the walls of Bruma. Afternoon had come and gone during her journey, and now the sun swept low into purple twilight. Frosted air blew down off the Jerall Mountains, scraping at her cheeks and biting the tip of her nose. She pulled the hood of her cloak forward and pressed on, grateful for the magical heat that radiated beneath her mages robes.

Nim crunched through the layers of old, hardened snow with a quickening pace as she spied the wooden fencing of the Wild-Eye stables just outside the town. A suspiciously large mass of dark grey smoke billowed up from within the walls of the city and she wondered if today fell upon a holiday that she had forgotten. Perhaps there was a communal bonfire, and Nim’s mouth watered at the idea of roast pigs and chestnuts. The closer she drew, the better able she was to make out the excited cries and shouts from beyond the gate. Whatever festivity was taking place seemed to be drawing quite a crowd given the commotion.

Once through the gate, Nim realized there was no celebration being held anywhere in town. She pushed her way through the concerned crowd until she came to the source of the fire – the Mages Guild.

“Let me through,” she screamed as she attempted to squeeze past a huddle of guards clad in armor with the crest of Bruma.

“Stay back, Citizen,” a man shouted her down in a thick Nordic accent. “Let the fire warden handle the building!”

Over the guard’s shoulder, Nim could see a line of soldiers passing buckets of water down through the streets and dousing the growing flames. She stood on the tips of her toes and gazed around the crowd in search of Volanaro, J’skar, Serena, Jeanne, anyone from the guild but she met only unfamiliar faces struck by worry and a morbid compulsion to stare as the building burned.

“There are people inside,” Nim cried again, pulling on the guard’s arm. “Please let me though! Those are my friends! I must know that they’re safe!”

The guard frowned sternly at the small elf tugging on his arm, but when he saw the horror written across her face, his eyes softened in sympathy.

“There are no people inside,” he said. “There are_ things_ in that building, but they are not people.”

_Necromancers. _She came too late.

Nim gasped as though kicked in the gut. The guard held her steady by the arm for a moment, certain she would collapse to unconsciousness by the clouded look that overwhelmed her eyes. Sucking in acrid air, Nim tore free from the crowd and raced up the steeped road of Bruma to higher streets where she could access the roof of nearby buildings. She cast her invisibility shroud and leapt off the edge of the wall lining the street above the Mage’s guild hall, landing on the wood-shingled roof of the Fighter’s Guild next door. Nim dangled herself from the edge before dropping to her feet just behind the barricade of guards that had previously kept her away. She made for the door, without caring if someone saw her enter.

Despite the roar from the fire that filled the stairwells leading to the basement, Nim heard the groans and rattles of undead worm thralls as they shambled through the blaze and debris of the ground level. Nim looked at the guild seal etched into the floor in front of her and found Selena Orania’s mutilated body twisted at inhuman angle. She set her mind to focus on a warding charm and a detect life spell before drawing her silver blade from it sheath and proceeding into the foyer.

Two zombies lurched toward her from the stockroom behind the front counter. If it wasn’t enough to be battling the undead in a burning building, her situation was made worse by the fact that one was already aflame. Nim focused first on the zombie to her right, the one that could not singe her, and swung her short blade upward. She managed to only partially sever the arm at the shoulder, and it continued forward unphased. Nim set a stream of shock magic into its chest and her target fell to the ground. Nim rushed to it, wasting no time to hack off its head and legs to prevent the threat of its return.

Suddenly, she was struck on the shoulder and pushed backward to the floor of the stockroom. She smelled burning hair a split second before pain seared across her upper arm, and she caught sight of her robes on fire. She rolled across the floor, beating the flames out as she tumbled. The zombie advanced and Nim had just enough time to reach for her short sword before the creature was upon her again, swinging its arms wildly as it reached for her. Nim moved in and brought the blade high above her shoulder. When she swung it down, it slashed clean through the charred flesh of the zombie’s neck and cut through the cervical vertebrae. Nim followed through the swing with an uncoordinated stumble as the movement caused the wound on her arm to stretch and split. She screamed in agony, stabilizing herself against the doorframe. The headless body of the zombie slumped to the floor and writhed in the enveloping flame.

Nim looked to her shoulder and found a gaping hole burned in the fabric of her robe. The flesh showing through was bright red, blistered, and oozing. She clenched her teeth and called forth wave after wave of healing magic until the skin grew back, smooth and bronze. Nim breathed deeply but the air was so thick with fumes that the heavy breaths only weighed her lungs down with ash and smoke. She focused again on the auras in the room around her. She noticed many figures bellow her feet, more undead she guessed by their shambling movements. Two figures stood on the floor above, one pacing to and fro and the other stone still in the corner. With her sword at the ready, Nim proceeded cautiously to the second floor.

As she turned a bend in the stairwell, she saw that the door to Jeanne’s bedroom was open and a figure clad in black robes was waiting, beckoning Nim forward with a wave of her hand.

“What have we here? A visitor,” the woman said, mocking Nim with a wicked laugh. Nim’s body clenched and she forced herself to climb the stairs until she met the necromancer on level ground.

“Where is he, you wretched thing,” Nim hissed, stepping into the room and spying Jeanne’s dead body at the foot of the bed. “Where is Mannimarco?”

“Ah, you must be the new pet dog! The guilds own loyal servant come to fetch your master’s game like a good little retriever.” As the necromancer spoke, Nim swore she saw Jeanne’s leg twitch. “He told us you would come rooting around here for the corpses of your guildmates, but the guest of honor has already left!”

The woman raised her arm and Nim watched as Jeanne’s corpse spasmed. It arched its back and sat forward revealing lifeless eyes sunken into deep into its skull. Her neck had been snapped at an oblique angle, but the body continued to rise. The necromancer’s face curled with devilish delight to see Nim’s awestruck gaze travel to the reanimated corpse. The woman turned her head to follow the direction of Nim’s eyes, and it was that fatal act of hubris that cost her life.

Nim launched herself at the necromancer and with her hand engulfed in magical flame, she pulled the woman’s head back by her braid and dragged the edge of her blade across the pale skin of her throat. Nim threw the necromancer to the floor and the woman lay sputtering on a mouthful of blood before Nim descended upon her again. She stabbed and stabbed, blood spraying around them in a thick rain. Jeanne’s body had dropped to the floor, lifeless again, which could only mean that the necromancer controlling her was dead too, but Nim did not stop. She stabbed, she hacked, she sawed at all of the woman’s extremities until she was reduced to a pile of bleeding limbs. It was common practice to dismember any necromancer foes to prevent those among their ranks from claiming their corpses as worm thralls, but Nim knew in her heart that it was not the only reason for her violent outbursts. She had been too late to save her guildmates. If she hadn’t wasted all that time between now and when Raminus had informed her of Volanaro’s message, maybe he would still be alive.

Nim slumped back on her haunches and coughed at the smoke building in her lungs. She wiped the hair from her face, drawing back a hand covered in black soot and blood. Rising to her feet, she had all but forgotten about the second aura in the corner of the room. She pivoted in her stance, blade at the ready, and met the bright yellow eyes of a Khajiit cowering in fear.

“J’skar!” Nim cried out, her voice heavy with relief to see one of her fellow magisters alive. She sheathed her blade and sprinted to the corner, wrapping her arms around him and nestling her cheek against his head. She heard him choke out a dry sob against her robe, his throat hoarse from the ungodly amount of smoke he had inhaled in the hour he laid in hiding. Nim pulled away and sucked an involuntary cry back into her nose.

“Where is Volanaro?” she asked, feeling the tears welling in her eyes. J’skar shook his head, opened his mouth to speak, and heaved again.

“I just couldn’t move,” he rasped. “I could hear the screaming, but I just couldn’t move. He killed them all… the King of Worms. He slaughtered them one by one.”

“Then we need to leave now. Come,” she urged, pulling him to his feet. “Let’s go.”

The pair made their way to the exit through falling rafters and curling plumes of black smoke. Sweet air rushed into their lungs as they flung the door wide and raced into the city street. J’skar collapsed to his knees and sucked in mouthful after mouthful while Nim bent forward, bracing herself with hands on her thighs as she reclaimed her breath.

The Nord guard that had stopped her before ran to her.

“How many more are inside?” His voice was burdened by panic and dread, by the guilt of almost leaving someone to be scorched alive.

“Let it burn,” Nim replied with a strained whisper. She took a deep breath and even air moving down the burned flesh of her throat was agony. “Let the whole damn thing burn.”

* * *

J’skar and Nim sat on the floor of a small room in Olav’s Tap and Tack, a plate of cheese and bread between them. The tavern floor below them was exceptionally quiet for a Fredas night, much like the rest of Bruma.

The two mages had healed themselves of flesh wounds and burns, but the images of their guildmates mutilated bodies could never be cleansed from memory. J’skar recounted all he could remember of the events from the previous hours as he watched helplessly while Mannimarco and his followers ravaged the guild. The senseless loss of their friends could never be redeemed, but J’skar had learned something valuable as he overheard the necromancers talking amongst each other. A name, Echo Cave, that spoke of the exact location where Mannimarco would be hiding and plotting the demise of the Mages Guild.

“You need to eat something, J’skar,” Nim pleaded gently and pushed the basket of bread toward him. The Khajiit ripped off a chunk and placed it in his mouth as he stared at the wood grains in the panels of the far wall. It sat on his tongue for a long time before he chewed.

“I should go to Echo Cave,” she whispered, more to herself than to her companion, before taking a long sip of water.

J’skar glared at her with eyes of hardened amber. “Don’t be an idiot,” he hissed. “Look at what they did to us here on our own soil, and you think you can take them alone at the heart of their cult? Do not throw your life away like this. We’ve had enough of our own die in vain.”

“I- I know,” Nim stammered. “I was just running through my mind out loud. This is the most information we’ve ever had on his whereabouts in Cyrodiil. If he moves locations, then we’re back to square one. I’m going straight to the University after I get some rest, and you should come with me. The Council should hear this from you first-hand.”

He nodded, eyes softening, and passed the basket back to Nim. “Eat something,” he said with a weak smile.

They shared a meager meal in brittle silence, neither of them having much of an appetite when the scent of charred flesh and decay stained the brim of their noses. Olav’s Tap and Tack lacked proper bathing facilities and the Jerall Inn had been evacuated do its proximity to the smoldering guild hall. As much as they tried to scrub the odor of smoke and burning blood from their hands and faces in the meager wash basin, the miasma remained as though seeping from their very pores.

“J’skar,” Nim said, clearing her throat. “When we get to the University, you shouldn’t mention Echo Cave. I think there is a traitor on the Council.”

His eyes widened to orbs of polished citrine. “How could it be?”

Nim shifted closer as though there were snooping ears at the door. “A few months back, the Council had planted a mage inside this necromancer lair to gather intelligence on their activities. When he stopped reporting, I was sent in addition to a band of battlemages to retrieve him. The necromancers knew we were coming. They knew I was coming. Only the Council would have knowledge of the mission. And today, did you hear what that woman in Jeanne’s room said to me?”

J’skar nodded and she continued.

“You knew that Volanaro had suspicions about increased necromancer activity here in the north, right?”

“Of course. He’s my best friend. We worked together on the report he sent to the council.” J’skar swallowed and raised a cup of water to his mouth with trembling hands. A mist glistened across his eyes. “He was my best friend.”

Nim sighed quietly and pushed down the lump mounting in her throat. Feeling quite useless and utterly bereft of any way comfort him, she placed her hand over his and pressed on.

“Raminus told me that the Council chose not to investigate further after reading through it. He sent me here to check in with Volanaro. That necromancer, she knew I was coming. Somebody told her about the report.”

“You think Raminus Polus is the traitor?”

J’skar’s question left her nonplussed for a brief moment. She never thought to hear the Master Wizard’s name and the word _traitor_ in the same sentence.

“No I-” and suddenly Nim froze in terror. She hadn’t in all her wildest dreams ever conceived such an idea, but how could she ignore the possibility?

_No_, she quickly corrected herself and ran through all of her recent encounters with him in her head. _There must be something to rule him out. _

“Raminus can’t be the traitor,” she said, but the certainty in her voice was not effortless. “Why would he send me here?”

“Because you know too much? Because you press the Council too hard?”

“You mean-”

J’skar nodded. “To kill you. To get rid of you.”

“I- I don’t think he would do that. He’s always voted in favor of proactive measures, action that keep our members safe. It’s the other Council members that outvote him.”

“And he told you that didn’t he?” Nim nodded cautiously. “How can you be sure his words are true?”

“Raminus is a terrible liar.”

“So he’s lied to you before?”

Nim’s eye broadened and she felt her mouth go dry. He had lied before, and it was the first mission he had ever sent her on. Raminus had asked her to retrieve a book from Count Hassildor, a book that never existed, and it was the Count himself who informed her that she was sent as an unwitting pawn of the Council to spy on him. But Raminus apologized, and he never broke her trust her again. In fact, he had been the only one of the Council members willing to take her concerns seriously.

“I trust him,” she said earnestly, shaking her head, “and I don’t trust people lightly.”

J’skar shifted away and watched her coldly.

“So Volanaro is murdered, Jeanne is murdered, Selena is murdered, and I’m supposed to sit idly while you ignore the possibility of a traitor?” His voice was low and severe as he spoke. “Did the other Council members know you were coming to Bruma too, or was it just Raminus?”

“He could have told them,” she replied quickly. “He doesn’t keep secrets from them very well.”

“So they didn’t know. Raminus sent you on his own?”

J’skar’s eyes hardened as they bore into Nim and she furrowed her brows in frustration, not at her fellow mage, but at herself. Had she really been overlooking something so glaringly obvious this whole time?

“I’ve been working with him for a while, J’skar. I know him.”

“Who are you trying to convince, Nim? Me or yourself?”

“It’s not like that!” Nim’s voice rose in a shrill protest, and the tension between the two mages wound tighter. She took a breath to quite the flaring heat in her belly and spoke slow and soft. “If we cannot trust him, we have nothing. We have nobody else on our side.”

“That’s easy for you to say, Nim,” he said with scathing rancor. “Who have you lost to the King of Worms and his cult?”

Nim went motionless as stone. “Don’t turn your anger on me,” she said numbly despite the venom building on her tongue. “I’ve not come this far without knowing my share of grief.”

“Then why are you so reluctant to question his motives?” When she didn’t respond, J’skar scoffed and shook his head stiffly. “Bah, the University has made you soft or stupid. Think of how you’re going to feel when the necromancers come for those you care about.”

“And what did you do when Mannimarco came for your friends?” She pointed an accusatory finger at the Khajiit, and the words spilled from her mouth like blood from a fresh cut. Her voice was flat and dead against even her own ears. “You hid. You disappeared.”

J’skar’s face fell as soon as the words left her lips and all of his anger withered away to hopeless despair. Nim caught the breath at the back of her throat as she watched the despondence spread across his features like a ravaging plague, and never before had she felt like such a vile creature.

“Forgive me please,” Nim begged him. She squeezed his hand in her palm and leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his knee. “You don’t deserve any of this pain. None of it is your fault. No one deserved any of it.”

“It’s true,” J’skar confessed. “I did nothing to save them. The only reason why I’m still alive is because you came and found me in that corner. I’ve been cruel to you, Nim, and I apologize.” She heard his voice break beneath the weight of tears. “Please understand that I’ve lost a lot today.”

“I’m so sorry, J’skar, for everything. I should never have said those awful things.”

“Let’s not talk about it then. We all take our demons to the ground when we die, but in light we must face them.” J’skar stood and made for the door. He opened it and looked back at Nim briefly before turning away in shame. “We leave tomorrow before sun rises. For, now we should sleep.”

Nim found her way to bed, and before she closed her eyes she offered prayer to Stendarr that J’skar be granted mercy tonight, that he find the solace of sleep in this dark hour.

* * *

The two mages stood outside the lobby doors of the Arcane University just as the sun had reached its zenith. No traces of the tension or anger from the night before followed them down from Bruma. Whatever disagreements they had were left in that room at Olav’s tavern, but Nim knew that night would come haunt her when she lay alone in her empty house.

They entered the lobby, and Nim spied a familiar mop of charcoal hair on the man sitting with his back to the door and his nose deep in a book. Raminus look over his shoulder, a cup of tea clenched in his hand, and his small smile fell when he found a small mage standing in the doorway, the hem of her tattered robes stained black with ash and blood splattered across the fabric of her chest like rain on a glass window.

“Eyes of Magnus, Nimileth, what happened?” Raminus rushed to her, his cup falling from his hands with a graceless shatter. She met his concerned gaze with eyes that were older, harder than he had previously known them to be. They were red and raw around the edges, and he knew that they had seen horrors that no one in this world was meant to experience.

Guilt tore through him like the teeth of a rabid wolf, and he cursed himself again and again for putting her in harm’s way. Though he knew she was strong and capable, she looked so small and defenseless in her robes, always a size too large and billowing about her frame. It took all of his self-control to keep from pulling her into an embrace and offering apology after apology.

“You look terrible,” he lamented, and paused when he heard the echo of his words ringing in his ears. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she shook her head wearily and her voice carried the burden of a harvest moon. “We need to speak now. We need to see the Archmage.”

“Did you just get back from Bruma?” He looked over her shoulder and saw a familiar Khajiit standing in soot-covered tan robes. “J’skar, what news from Volanaro.”

Nim turned to look at her friend, his mouth agape and a ringing silence held between his teeth.

“Volanaro didn’t make it,” J’skar said. His voice cracked as he spoke as though his lungs were still scarred by the thick smoke of the burning guild hall.

“J’skar was the only one left, Raminus,” Nim whispered.

The Imperial’s stare bounced back and forth between the two, waiting for explanation. “What do you mean? Left from what?”

“I mean it’s bad, Raminus,” her voice faltered. “Round the Council.”’

Nim and J’skar had just enough time to bathe and change into clean clothing while the Council was gathered. Nim made a brief stop at the Mystic Archives on her way back to the meeting chambers. As a Council member, Tar-meena, the head curator of the collection, would no doubt be busy up to her eyeballs with the fallout of the tragedy in Bruma, but Boderi Farano agreed to help Nim restore Greywyn’s journal as long as her hands were not require for more pressing matters. Nim thanked her and offered a fatigued smile before she left for the Archmage’s tower.

* * *

Hannibal Traven sat with his fingers steepled in front of him, a flat pensive expression betraying little on his face. A guild hall had burnt to ash with most of its members still inside. News of it was just now breaking in the Imperial City, and it was not a good look for anyone involved. Not for Bruma or the city guard and certainly not for the Mages Guild.

Traven had the Nim and J’skar recount their versions of the events twice, and he waited for the Council to finish with their rounds of questioning before he would decide the proper manner in which to proceed. At least the citizens of Cyrodiil would remain ignorant to the true cause of the death and destruction. Accidents happen left and right, but the reality they would be saved from was infinitely darker. Traven would make it his dying effort to prevent such a travesty from ever occurring to another guild member again.

“And you say you _saw_ the King of Worms? Mannimarco himself?” Caranya paced back and forth across the floor of the council room as she questioned the exhausted Khajiit with no attempt to conceal the doubt in her voice.

“Yes,” he said, “I watched him murder Volanaro. It was as though Mannimarco sucked out his soul.”

J’skar studied the faces in the room intently as he spoke. If there was a traitor on the Council as Nim suggested, they were marvelous at feigning surprise. As he looked around the table he was met with expressions of skepticism, sympathy, arrogance, but no sign of treachery leapt out at him

“I can’t help but find that observation questionable,” Caranya said dismissively. “How can we know for sure that it is Mannimarco himself and not just one of his acolytes? Describe him again. Tell us about the mark on his robes.”

“This is not an interrogation, Caranya.” Tar-meena scolded the Altmer with a sharp glare. “Don’t take that tone with him. He’s been through enough. Whether it was Mannimarco or his necromancers acting alone matters little to the fact that they’ve grown powerful and bold enough to attack our homes. Let us waste no more time on the subject and move on.”

“I only mean to acknowledge the amount of stress our Journeyman must have been under. To lose everyone before your own eyes.” Caranya shook her head slow and sighed sympathetically. “I can’t imagine what that does to one’s sensibilities.”

A knot of frustration twisted in Nim’s belly as she listened to the Altmer mage attempt to discredit J’skar’s information. “The necromancer I ran into confirmed that the King of Worms was there. She said it clear as day to me, that I was –” she choked out that last words, “too late to see him.”

Irlav Jarol shook his finger in the air, and each time Nim saw that pointer wagging back and forth she swore it had grown a bit fatter than last time. “He must have known you were there, invisibility spell or not. He’s Mannimarco. I’d bet my left arm that he knows a damned detection spell. Why then would he leave a survivor?”

“I too find it odd,” Raminus agreed. “If he wanted to send a message, wouldn’t destroying an entire guild hall and all of its members be enough?”

“Unless he intended for something to get back to us,” Traven suggested with a commanding calm. He turned to J’skar. “What could it have been? Did you happen to overhear Mannimarco as he spoke to the other necromancers?”

J’skar nodded and Nim felt electricity in her blood as she wondered if he would mention Echo Cave.

“Only that he wanted to watch the guild burn.” The Khajiit met Nim’s eye briefly and she felt a wave of relief overcome her. She breathed out softly and much of the tension she held in her shoulders dissipated with the exhale. Irlav seemed to notice the subtle exchange.

“What are you hiding,” he growled and narrowed his eyes at Nim with fierce suspicion. “What are you not telling us?”

“No, there is nothing else,” J’skar stated firmly.

“Is that true?” Caranya stopped pacing and returned to her seat beside the Khajiit Journeyman. She crossed her arms over her chest and the look she gave J’skar was full of ice. “If there is any information you’re holding onto, come out with it now. We must use everything at our disposal if we are to prevent the spread of their destruction.”

J’skar returned the hostile glare with eyes that burned like hot coals. “Just like the report from Volanaro, right? It was so valuable to you that you couldn’t be bothered to lift a finger to help him.”

The woman pursed her lips, drawing a sharp breath through flared nostrils. “I’ll have none of your insolence,” she hissed. “Think of the lives that have been lost! You don’t want to see that, again do you? Now, out with whatever secrets you’re keeping.” 

“He said he didn’t hear anything else. Let him be, ” Nim snapped and clenched her fists. Raminus, who sat beside her, could feel anger radiating from her like a furnace.

Irlav slapped his hands to the table and leaned forward. He jabbed a finger directly at Nim’s face. “You’re unusually defensive today. What, have you grown tired of throwing around grossly misinformed accusations?”

Traven stood from his seat. The wood of his chair scraped loudly against the tile.

“Enough,” he demanded. “This session is adjourned. Nimileth, we are ever so grateful that you made it to Bruma in time to bring J’skar back to us safely. Thank you. Without this information, we would be completely in the dark about what happened.” He turned to the Khajiit and motioned him forward. “J’skar, allow me to escort you to the living quarters where you can receive proper rest, and we may speak on finding you another position as a destruction trainer. The rest of you, collect yourselves before this evening. The Council shall discuss our next course of action shortly.”

Raminus stood and watched as the rest of the Council disappeared through the teleporter. When the room had emptied, he glanced to his left and found Nim wringing her hands in her lap.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Did you tell the Council that I was going to Bruma?” Her voice trembled slightly in her throat.

“Yes. I had to inform them that I disclosed to you the nature of Volanaro’s report. I told you that I didn’t want you acting alone.”

She released an audible sigh, relief coursing through her to know that Raminus had not betrayed her. She trusted him. She had to trust him, but the consolation lasted for only a fleeting moment before it was shattered by the grisly realization that her suspicions had been correct. A traitor sat on the Council of Mages.

“The necromancers expected me,” she said with grim certainty. “They addressed me personally when I arrived. Someone on the Council told them of our plans.”

“Nimileth,” the Master Wizard gasped incredulously and stared for a long moment. “You can’t say this again.”

“Raminus, you must listen to me. You must,” she begged him, unable to contain the desperation in her voice. “First Neyond Twyl and now Bruma. They’ve always been one step ahead of us. Don’t you see it?”

The Imperial took the seat beside her and leaned forward against the table. A frown deepened on his features as he turned to her.

“Don’t look at me like I’m mad,” she said.

“I’m not.”

Irlav, Caranya, Tar-meena. They were all members in good standing, and each had been with the guild for decades. How could it be true? After a long pause of thinking, he spoke again. “This is not good, Nim. I’m at a loss of words.”

“You believe me?”

“I do, and we are all in grave danger. I’m sorry that I sent you to Bruma alone.” Regret wore heavy across his face. “I should have gone with you.”

Nim’s eyes grew dark and fell to her feet. “No, I should have gone sooner.” Her voice broke beneath a pang of crushing guilt. She thought of Serena, her body contorted into a gruesome shape. She thought of Jeanne, her lifeless corpse twitching beneath the necromancer’s spell. “If I had only left for Bruma sooner!” And this time she shouted. The pain in her voice echoed against the stone walls.

Nim buried her face into her hands. She trembled in her seat as though weeping, but Raminus heard no sound escape her. Finally, the girl collapsed forward in deep, heaving sobs. Her head rested against crossed arms on the surface of the table as she mumbled something incoherent into the fabric of her robes.

Raminus hovered a hand above her shoulder before pulling it back, unsure whether or not his touch would bring reassurance or discomfort. He pulled his seat closer to her and leaned in to hear the words through her crying.

“It’s my fault,” he heard her say, murmured through choked tears.

“Nimileth, I’m here,” he whispered. “Talk to me.”

She looked up at him, eyes a blistering red that lined the summer of her irises.

“It’s all my fault that they’re dead! If I had gotten there sooner-“

“If you arrived sooner, you might have been killed yourself. It’s not your fault, don’t say that. No one could have known Mannimarco would be so brazen.”

“I knew!” She wailed. “You told me of Volanaro’s suspicions, and I delayed in going! If only I had--”

“Nim, who knows what difference it would have made? Don’t torture yourself like this. J’skar lives because of you. It is not your responsibility to save everyone. You can’t possibly take blame for this.”

Raminus wrapped an arm around her, and she wept into his shoulder. He offered the sleeve of his robe to dab at her eyes.

“You show me such kindness, Master Wizard,” she cried, clutching his hand in hers as he wiped away a stream of fresh tears. “I don’t deserve any of it. Why? Why are you so kind to me?”

“How can you deserve anything but?”

“I’ve seen such terrible things in this life, and I’ve caused them too. True evil.”

“You haven’t.”

“I’m a hypocrite and a fraud. You don’t know of the unspeakable things I’ve done. I should disappear. I should just disappear.”

“That isn’t true.” His soft voice carried an urgency as though pleading with her. “It’s not your fault that the Council has stalled every suggestion you’ve put forth. You mustn’t attribute these horrors to your own doing. Mannimarco is the monster, and if there is anyone who is guilty of allowing his power to grow it’s the Council. It’s people like me who have remained motionless.”

“Don’t you say that about yourself. It’s people like you who do right in the world. When I look at you, Raminus, I see the person I want to be. You’re the only one I trust.”

“And I am sorry for failing you.”

“No,” she sniffled. “I’m a better person because of you. You are the only safety I know. You make me feel like everything is going to be okay as long as you’re nearby.”

Raminus paused and looked at her intently. His heart beat like a hammer striking steel, his sternum the anvil.

“Then I’ll stay close, and things will be okay,” he said.

She lifted her eyes to face him and swallowed another lump into her throat. Her lips quivered. Raminus hesitated and then reached out to hold the side of her face in his palm. He brushed the tear pooling at the corner of her eye and spoke softly, a tenderness in his touch that she had never known before.

“I’ll stay close so we can keep each other safe.”

And suddenly Nim was upon him, clutching his jaw in her trembling hands and releasing a fragile cry against his mouth. She kissed him as though trying to meld his breath into hers, as though if she kissed him hard enough, he might draw out all the poison inside of her and leave it to evaporate in the air alongside her shallow whimpers. He was orange zest and stone flower tea on her lips, sharp and steeped in spices that tingled on her tongue. Her hands tangled themselves in his hair and she melted like honey against him, dissolving at the percussion of his heart against hers.

Raminus froze for only a heartbeat, and when he felt her lips, wet and salted with tears, against his own, the warmth spread down his body like aged liquor rolling into his stomach. She whimpered through a sob and he found himself pulling her toward him, moved by instinct. She slung an arm around his neck, and she was so close. Closer than she had ever been before as she crushed her mouth to his. Harder, he pulled her to him until she was sitting in his lap, leaning into him with a heaviness he dare not question, with the burden she carried within her soul.

Her hair draped around his face, concealing him from the dancing flames of the brazier overhead, and when Raminus closed his eyes, she was the only light that existed in all of Mundus, brilliant and blinding. She smelled of fresh earth after a winter thaw, blackberries in the peak of Sun’s Height, and he breathed her in with a gasp of air as though he had been submerged under water for years. She shifted and his hand on her lower back met bare flesh where her shirt rode up. He followed the heat of her skin, running a hand up her spine and pressing her closer as though they could become one body if he only held her so tightly.

Raminus pulled away for air and swallowed dryly. He stared wild-eyed, lost for any word to speak beside her name on his lips.

“Nim--” His voice croaked with surprise, and Nim shriveled away from him immediately, drawing her hands up to her eyes and pressing them against the ridge of her brow.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered and wrenched herself out of his arms. Panic swept through her, plain on her face. “I’ve done it again. Gods, I’m such a terribly self-absorbed fool to put you in this position.” She gathered her pack quickly and made for the teleporter.

Raminus watched, petrified like rock as she pulled further away. _Speak to her, you idiot!_

“Nimileth, I’m not mad at you!” he called out and ran for her, gripping her at the wrist._ Tell her what she means to you! Tell her!_ “Please don’t go--”

Suddenly, the teleporter across the room whirred, signaling the arrival of an ascending wizard. Nim jumped back from him, pulling her wrist to her chest just as Hannibal Traven appeared before them. The Arch-mage startled slightly upon realizing he was not alone in the council chambers.

“Oh,” the Breton blurted out to the shocked wizards. “The two of you are still here. You look… awfully flushed.”

Traven looked back and forth between the Bosmer and the Imperial, taking note of their equally mortified expressions. He met them with his ever-enduring smile gracing his wrinkled lips. Nim swallowed a mouthful so hard and stale that it was painful, and she stole a glance toward Raminus. His face was ashen and sunken into a grimace that suggested he could be sick at any minute. 

“Master Wizard,” Traven spoke quietly, “a word alone If I may.”

“Of course, Arch-mage.” _You idiot, if you don’t tell her now, you never will. _“If I could only finish my conversation with Nimileth first.”

But Nim was already across the room and readying to throw herself into the teleporter as soon as Traven stepped away. “It’s quite alright, Master Wizard,” she mumbled hoarsely. “I really should go anyway. I need to, um, brew some potions.”

The Arch-mage nodded, stepping down to the tiled floor, and Raminus flinched in hopeless anticipation as he watched Nim disappear through the teleporter like a phantom before his eyes.


	23. The Gloaming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Easily one of my favorite quests.

**Chapter 23: The Gloaming**

Nim hid in the Arch-mage’s quarters and waited impatiently for Hannibal Traven to return from the Council's latest meeting. It was not the first time she had snuck into his room before, the first occurring when she was a mere prowler in the Thieves Guild and the second being her rather intrusive introduction. Still, the ease with which she could trespass into such a powerful man’s bedroom never failed to surprise her. Now with everyone so occupied with the news of the Bruma Guild Hall, she figured she’d need to close her eyes and bind her legs if sneaking about the Arch-mage’s tower were to pose any form of challenge.

As she waited, her mind strayed to the outburst of emotion she had displayed a few hours ago while in the Council room with Raminus. The guilt of the guild’s loss dug into her shoulders and she felt herself buckling beneath it. What she wanted was a scolding, a punishment. Someone should have blamed her, told her that she should have been there to stop Mannimarco. She should have been there to save her friends. But what had she received?

_Sympathy. Exoneration. _And it disgusted her to no end.

Nim pressed her hands into her face and groaned. _Mighty Gods just strike me down now!_

And Raminus - her face burned at the memory. What had possessed her to make such an uninvited and shameless move? Had Traven seen the two of them together? Would the Master Wizard be in trouble? With all the turmoil at hand, a bit of fraternization should be the least of the Council’s worries. She thought of the horror in his eyes, wide as moons, and shuddered. It’s not like he wanted it anyway, and once again Nim felt the need for a strong reprimanding. The passing time and the spiral of her thoughts only served to cement her misgivings regarding how she handled herself. She chewed at the cuticle of her pointer finger and prayed silently that Raminus be saved form any further embarrassment.

At last the teleporter hummed awake and the Arch-mage appeared across the room. Traven was less than pleased to find Nim there, sitting at his desk and drumming her fingers against the back of the chair, but it was better than the last time she stole into his chambers and woke him in the middle of a nap. Traven informed her with marked guilt on his face that the Council had yet to agree on how to proceed with the matter. Though she swallowed her words, the anger was plain in her expression. Had he formed some semblance of a plan and proven that the Council was willing to avenge the senseless death of their colleagues, she might have told him about Echo Cave. She wanted to tell him, but the risk of the traitor informing Mannimarco and dispersing the nest of Necromancer’s was too great.

Unrest and contention were heavy in the air between them, and Nim knew it was unlikely for the situation to be resolved quickly among the Council’s seats. She left for Skingrad only after she was certain that the Council would not have need of her in the coming days. As she walked toward the West Weald, she thought of her promotion to the rank of Wizard. It was an ambition she had dreamt of since first learning about the Mages Guild, and now it rang like rusted tin, rattling in her skull. Now, she couldn’t see it as anything more than a placation, a bone tossed her direction to keep the angry dog sated and under control for another day.

Reaching the western gates of Skingrad as dusk unfurled its colors above, Nim pulled out her contract and read through its contents again. She had come dreadfully underprepared for a dinner party in the affluent part of town, seeing how her current attire was nothing short of plain, practical linens. At first she thought maybe it would help her evade suspicion, for who would assume a simple peasant capable of murdering five others? Very quickly, she remembered that few ever suspected the doe-eyed Bosmer capable of any violent tendencies in the first place. Turning north toward the shopping distract, Nim decided she needed better clothes if she were going to attempt to fit in with this crowd.

Her mind was conspicuously absent from the task at hand as she roamed the shop floor, brushing her hand over soft velvets and shimmering silks. She found her thoughts ambling aimlessly into the Council meeting room, chasing the ghost of stoneflower tea and orange that stained her memory.

Nim snapped herself to the present and eyed the dresses in front of her with growing resentment. To think the only parties she had been invited to all year revolved around murder and bloodshed! Why did Lucien choose her for this job anyway? To test her social skills? Was he mocking her? Was it the punishment she duly deserved?

Begrudgingly, she purchased a dress of blue silk and cotton and a sack full of pigmented powder that she recognized as kermes. Though the red dye’s vibrancy came from crushed beetles, she fully intended to use it as rouge. As long as it was not mercury or lead based, she didn’t really care from what creature the pigment came from. Focusing on her task at hand, she made a last shopping trip to _All Things Alchemical_ before she left for the Two Sisters Lodge to rent a room.

Nim stored her belongings beneath the bed and prepared for her upcoming contract. The dress she purchased was light and easy to maneuver in, but her skin felt heavy beneath the layer of rouge, kohl, and deceit. She strapped her Blade of Woe to her thigh and tucked a small vial of poison into the band of her smallclothes. Before heading to Summitmist Manor, Nim double checked the mirror and felt like screaming, reluctant to claim the reflection pointing back at her as her own.

* * *

The sky had turned to dark grey as rain clouds masked the moon above. Nim scurried against the walls, hiding beneath the eaves of the houses lining the road down to Summitmist Manor. Fafnir greeted her at the door, a wicked glint of pleasure dancing in his eyes as he spoke of their shared Mother and handed her the key to the house. Nim entered.

“Oh there you are, the final guest!” An elderly Breton woman rushed to Nim and offered her hand. “Mathilde Petit. And you?”

“Nimileth,” the Bosmer responded with a warm, saccharine smile, “my pleasure.”

“Well the rest of us have already traded introductions. They’re upstairs now enjoying dinner. Sorry we didn’t wait.”

“It’s no trouble. The journey took longer than expected.”

“Come, let us join them.” Nim followed after Mathilde as she crossed the foyer and ascended the stairs. “So tell me a little bit about yourself. What brings you to this party?”

“Uh,” Nim faltered, realizing she hadn’t put much thought into her backstory for the character she was to play tonight.

“What did you say, darling,” Mathilde replied.

“Oh, I said I’ve been hired to slaughter all of you one by one.”

Mathilde stopped in her tracks, her back still turned to the small elf. Nim’s mouth curled into a nervous smile, the kind you’d find on a startled dog. She clenched a fist at her side, feeling her nails dig crescent moons into the flesh of her palm, and it was in that moment that she realized how truly worn and exhausted her mind was after Bruma, after evading the Council’s suspicions, after her last moments with Raminus. This contract was the furthest from her mind, and it was readily apparent that if she didn’t get her act together this second, she was bound to bungle it.

To her surprise, Mathilde turned to her with a raucous laugh splitting her face. She clapped her hands together in delight. “Oh, a joker! We so need a bit of light humor in here! Come, let me introduce you to the rest of the guests.”

They sat themselves around the circular table and the guests exchanged introduction once more. Nels the Naughty, Primo Antonius, Neville, Dovesi Dran, and Mathilde Petit. Five strangers that seemed to have nothing in common. _How did they find themselves here, _Nim wondered. When it came to her turn, she presented herself as an enchanter based in the Imperial City who was looking for a way to cover next month’s rent after her husband squandered away their savings on arena bets. No one seemed suspicious, but then again, no one had need for suspicion. Nim relaxed slightly.

She wasn’t sure when the other guests had arrived, but already she sensed tensions thick in the air. Primo winced whenever Mathilde spoke on the Petits and their noble house in Highrock as though her voice were grating against his very ear drums. He stole glances toward Dovesi when he thought she wasn’t looking and each time she met him with a bashful smile and rose blossoming in her cheeks. Mathilde also looked the dunmeri woman’s way but without the hints of romance twinkling in her eyes, and instead glared at Dovesi unapologetically. Mathilde seemed more than mildly annoyed by Nels’ crude humor and rolled her eyes whenever he spoke with his boisterous, booming tone. Neville didn’t seem to care much for the Nord either, making patronizing comments about all the self-indulgent way Nels would choose to squander his gold if he found the treasure. Nim felt great sympathy for Nels herself. She sensed something tragic about him, something hollow in his laughter. The emptiness of it echoed in Nim's ears.

As dinner ended and people began to disperse into the hunt, Nim made small talk with Dovesi. As the young woman blabbered on beside her, Nim assessed the order in which she’d kill off the guests. Mathilde was obviously the weakest of the bunch, and a tumble down the stairs could easily be passed off as accidental. Neville would probably be the toughest given his history of service within the Legion. She decided, however, that Nels would be the easiest to take down, given that he had a penchant for strong drink and was already sloshed enough to be slurring words and stumbling against the banister. All she needed was a drink laced with poison and it would be a swift goodnight.

Returning her attention to the conversation she was currently engaged in, Nim nodded sympathetically and listened as Dovesi explained her suspicions regarding Mathilde’s disdain for the Dunmeri people. It was quite obvious in the Breton's scathing glower and commentary, and Nim wondered why Mathilde didn’t seem to have any problem with the fact that she was a Bosmer. What made the two so different? Nim decided to shift the conversation toward Primo and she took note that the attraction between Dovesi and the Imperial seemed to be very real indeed.

“I think it’s more than obvious that he’s interested in you,” Nim said, adopting a high-spirited tone. “Anyone with one eye could see the way he looked at you over dinner.”

“Oh, you really think so? What should I do?” Dovesi’s flustered reaction brought a smile to Nim’s face, and though the sincerity fell in her stomach as soon as she remembered she would need to kill this woman, she left the grin plastered on her face.

“Well first I think you should calm down.”

“Should I talk to him? Or maybe play hard to get? Or should I, you know? Or would that be too forward?"

“I think you should lean into his advances. If he likes you, maybe you’ll keep in touch after all this is over.”

“Don’t say that,” Dovesi giggled. “You’ll fill my head with nonsense.”

“It’s like a faerie story isn’t it? The two of you meeting in this house during a mysterious party.”

“Wouldn’t that be such a dream,” the Dunmer sighed. “I could make him happy in so many ways. Oh, I’m such a silly girl, aren’t I?”

“Maybe I’ll talk to him for you," Nim offered. "Men can be so oblivious. I can plant a seed in his head, let him know the feeling is mutual.”

Dovesi’s eyes glowed and her irises were lush petals of crimson rose. “You would? Oh, thank you. You’re a true friend.”

Nim swallowed a hard mouthful and patted the girl on her arm. Dovesi couldn’t be any older than her. Just a young woman looking for a bit of adventure and the promise of brighter days ahead. “Of course,” she smiled assuringly. “We elves need to look out for each other.”

Taking her leave, Nim made for the kitchen and searched through the racks. She found cheap wine stocked aplenty, but Nels did not seem like a wine kind of man. And so she headed down to the basement in search of a more appealing drink to spike, ideally some mead or brandy that she could tempt him with. A rustling sounded from deeper within the stone lined room, and Nim peeked around the corner to find Primo searching through the crates. Her hand wandered down to touch the dagger held at her thigh, and she cursed silently to herself. She could kill him now without him ever seeing her. A blade to the base of the skull would sever the vessels and nerves bundled there.

She closed her eyes and let the scene play out in her mind before she decided the consequences would be too great. It was too early in the night and his absence would surely be noted by Dovesi if no one else. What if someone came down and saw her trying to hide his body behind the crate? Nim stepped forward and acted startled to see him there.

“Oh, excuse me,” she called out. “I didn’t think I’d find anyone here. Seems you’ve beat us all to the basement.”

Primo smiled stiffly. “I have a pretty good idea where this gold is. It’s as good as mine, if you don’t mind me saying.” His voice was taut with the air of condescension, and Nim wondered again what such a wealthy young man was doing fiddling away his weekend in search of mere spending money. Perhaps being a nobleman’s son truly came with such leisure.

“We’ll see,” Nim replied playfully. “I’ll let time speak for myself.”

Primo stood straight and brushed the dust off the front of his outfit. “So, here we all are. It's funny how money can bring such different people together. You’ve met all the guests. What do you think of them?” He seemed to be studying her and the question rang like part of a test. She didn’t know how he felt about Nels or Neville, but perhaps she could play on his reaction toward the other women to build rapport.

“Well,” she started. “I’ve only come to know Dovesi and Mathilde. Dovesi’s a dream, such a lovely young woman. Mathilde… well, she claims to be noble-born. Honestly, I think there’s as much nobility in her bloodline as there is in my thumb.”

Primo laughed heartily and Nim sensed the sentiment was shared.

“I thought the same thing, friend. I’ve servants under my employ with more noble blood than her. And Dovesi, she's quite beautiful, isn't she? A little young, perhaps, and not exactly high-born, but she possesses a unique elegance.”

“You know, I couldn’t help but notice that there seems to be a spark between you and Dovesi. Did the two of you know each other before this?”

“Can I be honest with you?” Primo moved in a few paces closer and lowered his voice. He spoke with unexpected sincerity. “I find Dovesi... captivating. She possesses a beauty beyond compare. Maybe you could do me a favor?”

“Oh?”

“If you speak with her, put in a good word for me, would you? I would be forever in your debt."

“I have spoken with Dovesi a little. She mentioned you.”

The Imperial’s eyes widened. “And what did she say?”

“The feeling seems to be mutual. She’s a bit shy though.”

“I-” Primo began and then paused. “What should I do? Should I approach her about it? What if I make her uncomfortable?”

“I think she would like your company. Talk to her. Flatter her. Women like to feel special.”

“My friend, I thank you,” he said with a smile and clasped Nim’s hand in his. “Here, you can search the basement. I’ve much better things to attend to.”

Nim watched as the Imperial made his way up to the ground floor. When he disappeared behind the door, she searched the racks and located a bottle of Cyrodiliic brandy, just what she needed. She thought again of Primo and Dovesi and felt a melancholy bloom in her belly. _They would have made such a charming couple,_ she thought and poured the contents of her vial into the brandy.

* * *

Nim stood in waiting behind the door of the third-floor living quarters when at last she heard a shrill shriek rip through the air. Between giving Nels the poisoned drink and watching as he toppled over the railing of the second floor, Nim had just enough time to make herself invisible and race up to the bedrooms before someone could investigate the loud crash and stumble across the Nord’s body.

Shuffling down the stairs, she met a startled Primo and Dovesi.

“What was that scream?” Nim asked.

“I don’t know,” Dovesi replied, clutching Primo by the arm, “but I have the worst feeling in my stomach right now.”

“Let’s go see what happened.”

The trio departed for the ground floor where the scream had originated. As they descended the steps, Nim spied the empty cup and spilled brandy dripping down over the edge of the mezzanine where Nels took his last breath.

Neville and Mathilde were standing against the wall near the front door with colorless expressions. Mathilde's face was pulled tight in shock, but Neville had resorted to a stoic, thin-lipped slate.

“What’s the matter?” Primo asked, the distress of the other guests causing him to stiffen.

“It’s Nels,” Neville replied, staring off to his left. “He fell from the second-floor landing.”

Dovesi gasped. “Is he alright? How badly did he hurt himself?”

Nim proceeded forward and followed the direction of Neville’s stare. She feigned a small cry of fright at the sight of Nels lying in a pool of blood. The fall had not been a long one. Nim made sure no one was below to glimpse the two of them together, but it seemed Nels had hit his head on the corner of a coffee table. It didn’t help that the poison she had given him was known to cause hemorrhaging if the dose was strong enough. All circumstances accounted for, there was a great amount of blood spilling out of him.

“Keep Dovesi back,” Nim called out as she turned around. “Don’t let her see.” Primo pulled the Dunmer back by her shoulder and the couple headed upstairs. Nim could hear soft crying from the woman as she realized Nels was likely dead. Neville made to follow them and the rest of the guests trailed in suit.

They sat around the dining table again, solemn silence broken only by Dovesi’s muffled whimpers. Primo wrapped an arm around her and she wept softly into his kerchief.

“What will we do?” Nim asked, addressing Neville. “The authorities ought to be alerted, right?”

“We tried the door already,” he replied. “It’s locked.”

“Did you see him fall?”

Both Neville and Mathilde shook their heads.

“It’s the drink,” Mathilde said and pointed at the brown liquid spilling from the landing to the floor below. She took a series of deep breaths and ran her hand over her hair, smoothing down the fly-aways of her bun. “Mead-swilling savages. He was drinking enough to kill a horse.”

Nim chewed the inside of her lip at the woman’s reply. “He’s dead,” she said calmly. “There’s no need to insult him further.”

“Perhaps we should call the search off,” Neville suggested. “Let the watch collect him so the man can be sent to his family.”

Mathilde shook her head. “Why should we give up the chance to find the treasure because one barbarian can’t stomach his liquor? I say we continue. It’s not our fault what happened here.”

Nevile scratched his head, a deep furrow forming across his forehead. “I have a terrible, gut-wrenching feeling about this party. Six strangers locked in a house, it just doesn’t sit right.”

“Oh Neville, it was only an accident," the Breton maintained. "We all could tell he was a drunkard. We watched him drinking himself into a stupor all day long.”

Nevil frowned at the woman and turned toward the remaining guests. “What say the rest of you?”

“Can we move his body at least?" Primo asked. "It shouldn’t be out on… display like this.”

Neville shifted uneasily. “The guards will want to investigate the death, and it would be poor practice to disturb a crime scene.”

“Crime?” Dovesi’s eyes widened to saucers. “What do you mean _crime_? I thought he fell.”

“None of us would be involved in anything malicious,” Mathilde protested. “And besides, we were all accounted for, right? Neville and I were searching the sitting room. No one was with Nels when he fell.”

“It’s true,” Primo said. “I was with Dovesi. We saw Nimileth enter from the bedrooms after Nels had fallen. He must have been alone.”

“Hmm,” Neville mused. “I never thought I’d see the day my greed outweighed my sense of civic duty. If we all agree to continue, we can move him into the basement.”

A round of weak nods circulated the table. Neville stood and began toward the stairwell.

“Primo, would you give me a hand?”

“I-“ the Imperial’s face paled at the request and Nim would have bet one thousand septims that the man had never touched someone else’s blood before. He looked down at Dovesi and her warm, woeful eyes before giving a reluctant nod and following after the Redguard.

With the body out of the way, Nim moved a rug over the blooded spot on the floor and attempted to wipe away the trail that led to the basement with a few cloth napkins. She offered one to Neville and Primo as they returned from hauling Nels away which they both accepted gratefully.

“Nimileth, listen,” Primo whispered to her once Neville was out of earshot. “I don't mean to sound like a ghoul, but with Nels’ death, Dovesi is obviously upset. This may be my chance to get close to her. Offer her comfort and support during this difficult time. Besides, I want to watch over her, make sure she stays safe."

“Oh Primo, that’s so romantic,” Nim cooed. She feigned a gaze of adoration and placed a hand over her heart. “I think she could use comfort in light of this tragedy. She seems quite disturbed. It would be kind of you to stay with her. I’m sure she’ll feel so much better with your companionship.”

_Ugh,_ she grimaced internally. The words tasted bitter on her tongue.

“Yes, well I’d do anything to make her feel better. Thank you again.” Primo nodded and absently thrust the soiled cloth back into Nim’s hand. She stared, puzzled, at the bloodied napkin and watched Primo leave, her smile falling as she dropped the cloth in her hand to the floor.

* * *

Nim stirred softly in her bed, careful to avoid any creaking noises. She gazed around the bedroom with her Nighteye to find Mathilde asleep in the bed across from her. Dovesi was nowhere to be seen. Nim crept out of the room and cast a detection spell. Through the walls of the northwest bedroom she saw the aura of one individual, longer than Dovesi, stouter than Primo. In the next bedroom, she found two auras positioned so close to one another they almost looked like a single overweight individual had they not been breathing at two different paces. Nim approached the door, unlocking it with a wave of her hand.

Dovesi and Primo slept soundly with their bare arms wrapped around one another. At least in their last waking moments the couple found solace in each other’s embrace. Nim laid her fingers on Primo’s chest and released a paralyze spell that spread across his body in seconds, rendering him unable to fight. Nim placed her left hand over Dovesi’s mouth and swiped her dagger across the woman’s neck. The blood sprayed in a fine mist across the headboard, a pattern Nim almost found artistic if she were prone to finding beauty in her murders. Primo swiftly met the same fate. When she stepped back to double check that their auras had faded, their bodies were still coiled around each other, and it too looked almost poetic.

Nim slunk out the door again, locking it behind her. The shift she wore to bed was now covered in a heavy splatter of blood and she realized she had no other clothes to wear to bed. At least her dress was still clean, and she made for her bedroom to retrieve it.

“I knew you weren’t really asleep,” she heard a woman’s voice call to her.

Nim peeked into the room and found Mathilde sitting up in her bed.

_Had she heard what just happened? _Nim clenched her fist and moved into the room, locking it behind her.

Mathilde whispered through the darkness.. “You’ve been looking for the gold. I knew it.”

“Yes,” Nim replied quickly. “You’re right.” She breathed a silent sigh of relief to know that they were in the only windowless bedroom. They were enveloped in unbroken night and there was no way the old Breton could see the blood staining her clothes.

“Listen dear, I’ve been thinking. I can tell you’re sharp. You’ve got a cunningness about you.”

“I beg your pardon,” Nim replied, holding a chuckled between her teeth.

“Yes, you can’t fool me. I’ve seen enough in my time. What if we formed some kind of alliance?”

_An alliance? _It was too easy. _The poor old woman and her misguided sense of trust. _

"That sounds perfect. And we’ll split the gold?”

“Indeed,” the woman said with satisfied grin. “So, what ideas do you have?”

“Hmm.” Nim pondered her next move briefly. “Well, I hope it doesn’t sound too morbid, but since Nels body has been moved to the basement, no one has bothered to search there.”

Mathilde gasped with excitement. “The basement! Ooh, good idea! Maybe the chest is hidden under the floorboards.”

“We could search together. It would be so much faster this way, and if we go now we’ll have the advantage over everyone else.”

“Alright, let’s go!” Mathilde swung her legs over the edge of the bed and pressed her feet into a pair of slippers. “I just know you and I are going to find that gold! I have a sense about these things, you know.”

“Yes, Mathilde,” she agreed. “I can tell that you do.”

* * *

Neville was the last guest on the list. As Nim expected, the Redguard awoke early, unable to shake himself from his morning routine as a soldier despite the years of retirement.

“Good morning,” Nim called to him as he descended the stairs. She greeted him warmly and gestured toward the seat across from her at the dining table, a small array of smoked meats and sliced fruits spread out before her. “Breakfast?”

“Yes, thank you.” He joined her at the table and helped himself to a cup of coffee. “You did all this?”

“I did,” she nodded and felt her shoulders relax when she watched him take his first sip. “I think everyone else is still in bed. How did you sleep?”

“Not well,” he confessed. “I can’t shake this feeling that all is about to go to hell. This party is too good to be true. Why would someone arrange for this just to give away their gold? It feels like a setup, but listen to me, rambling on like the paranoid old man I am.”

“Well," Nim shrugged, "Nels death has us all shaken up.”

“You’ve been handling it well,” Nels noted, biting into a slice of sausage. “That or you have a seasoned stoicism about you. It’s funny, isn’t it?

“Hmm?”

“How money changes a man. How the need for it can drive you to such unspeakable acts. I was a soldier. Not just that but I was a captain of the Imperial Legion. I’m supposed to uphold the law. I follow a code of honor, and right now there’s a dead man in the basement rotting away because I so desperately want a chest of gold.”

“Yeah,” Nim mumbled bleakly, her eyes growing distant for a brief moment. “It is a bit peculiar, the things we do to sate our desires. I wish I could laugh about it. It would make things so much easier. I admit I’m still struggling to find the humor in senseless death.”

Neville offered a small shrug as he swallowed another mouthful of coffee, and Nim watched his face fall with rapid panic. He raised a hand to his throat, conscious of the sudden inability to breathe. His brows furrowed at first, questioning whether he was choking or not and then they widened to perfect globes at the sudden paralysis of his pharynx. Nim watched with a faint grimace as he attempted fruitlessly to gasp for air. He looked to Nim for help, a hand stretched her way grasping at the space between, pleading for assistance.

Nim held the breath in her throat and wondered if she should end it for him now. She touched the hilt of her dagger beneath her dress and drew it from its sheath. She was not without mercy after all.

* * *

“Are you absolutely positive that she is the one you want to assign to Philida?” Ungolim stared intently at Lucien as he took a sip from the bottle of ale in his hands and leaned backward into his seat. “We’ve failed in this effort three times before. There’s really no more room for error.”

Lucien felt the eyes of the Black Hand resting on him as they sat in the basement of Alval Uvani’s estate in Leyawiin. It was risky gathering here, in the very town that Adamus Philida would soon occupy upon his retirement, but it was the most convenient rendezvous point for the assassins to gather on such short notice. 

“I believe there is no one more suited to this task,” he said calmly. “Nimileth offers great promise for the Black Hand, the most potential I’ve seen in a recruit. I’ve already chosen to make her my new Silencer.”

Banus Alor snorted from across the table. His red eyes danced with playful mischief in the dim light of the wall sconces. “That’s what you said about your last Silencer, Lachance. Might it be possible that your judgement is slightly biased?”

The Imperial in question narrowed his lids briefly at the Dunmer’s mocking tone. "Aventina's assignment to Philida was under completely different circumstances. We all knew her usefulness had been expended."

"And just what purpose had been exhausted, Lucien?" Banus smirked.

Lucien simply glared.

“Nimileth has never failed a contract or forfeited a bonus. She enters and leaves behind no trace of her presence, no suspicion that the Dark Brotherhood was ever involved. And she’s a good marksman,” Lucien stated the last comment with firm conviction. “I can speak to her skill personally.”

“So is Telaendril,” Ungolim said, “and Nimileth has just now reached the rank of Assassin. Three of our own have been slain by Philida while attempting this task, and they were far more seasoned than her. I still think it should be Mathieu who goes. What say you?”

The Listener turned toward Mathieu who stood against the far wall with his arms crossed. He shrugged casually. “I go where Sithis wills me.”

Arquen shook her head, sending blonde locks bouncing against her shoulder. “I agree with, Lucien. No offense, Mathieu. I know that you’re more than skilled.”

“None taken,” he replied with a nod.

Arquen continued. “If Nimileth is indeed to perform the Purification as planned, then why not continue with this contract serving as yet another test? She’s passed them all thus far. If she is as talented as Lucien claims her to be then we will know of it, and we can rest assured that she can handle the rite of the Purification.”

Ungolim sat silently with his hands steepled in front of him as he thought on Arquen’s words. After a long moment, he gestured toward the other Silencers and Speakers in the room. “If anyone has final suggestions or arguments, lay them out now.” The room held still. “Then Nimileth will be the one to send Philida’s soul screaming into the Void. We should all take our leave now and thank Alval for his hospitality. Lucien,” he said, standing to leave, “write the contract.”

Lucien nodded in satisfied agreement, a familiar bloom of warmth settling in his chest. He lingered briefly as he finished his ale and exchanged the latest gossip with Banus. The room slowly emptied and finally he too decided to take his leave.

“Pretty bruise you have there, Brother.” Mathieu’s voice called to him as he reached the base of the stairs.

Lucien cast a sideways look toward the Breton and popped the collar of his robes.

“Please, Bellamont. My eyes are up here.”

“Let Antoinetta know that I admire her work.”

A dark smile grew on the Imperial’s face. “Who said anything about Antoinetta?”

“Oh." Mathieu quirked a brow, faltering for but a moment. “I suppose it was only a matter of time before you laid claim to our newest family member," he drawled with a measured smirk. "Well, she does have the softest little mouth. I can see why you’re so fond of her.”

Lucien felt the blood turn to winter in his arteries. He stared hard at Mathieu, who chuckled at the falling smile that soured the Speaker’s face.

“Don’t look so surprised, Lachance,” he tutted. “A woman of her caliber, you didn’t think you were the only one, did you?”

Lucien's glare burned like coal, the ice in his body melting away. “Say that again, Bellamont," he gritted out. The muscles at his temples bulged with the clench of his teeth. "I’m not sure I heard you clearly.”

Mathieu stepped closer, the smile playing on his face bold and taunting. He gave Lucien’s shoulder a firm squeeze. “It’s good to know our family is so close, isn’t it,” he whispered before stepping away. His eyes were matte stones, black like slate, and all life obscured behind them.

A burning roiled in Lucien’s stomach as he watched Mathieu ascend. The blood drummed against his ears, pounding and pounding until he could hear nothing except the beat of his heart wild and raging.

And as Mathieu reached the door of the basement, he looked back over his shoulder, a satisfied simper twisting on his lips to find Lucien beside himself with wrath. He looked like a worm writhing in the sun. In all hid days, Mathieu had never seen a vista so pleasing to the eye.


	24. Strictly Business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's fluff, but also.... not fluff at all

**Chapter 24: Strictly Business**

Nim stayed another night in Skingrad with hopes of catching up on sleep. Much to her dismay, she remained restless in spite of the mounting exhaustion that claimed her body. Her mind wandered aimlessly through the darkness of the inn room, and before the sun of Morndas broke, she left the city, heading west toward Anvil to return to her guild duties.

Her routine training with Carahil was a welcome distraction from the mess of Council matters and responsibilities to the Dark Brotherhood. As the two mages sparred in the guild hall, Carahil found herself surprised by the robustness of Nim’s defense against her silencing attacks. Whatever ward the small Bosmer had weaved acted with a strange selectiveness, impenetrable to silence hexes but with much less resistance to dispel paralysis, demoralizing, or charming effects.

After several hours, they sat side by side on the cool stone floor, sipping a potion as they recovered their magical reserves.

“That was a new ward today,” Carahil stated. “You crafted it yourself?”

“Aye, sure did.”

“Hmm,” the Altmer clucked her tongue and gave Nim a sideways look, “strange how it seemed tailored to dispel only silencing spells.”

Nim felt the disapproval in her mentor’s words and worried the inside of her cheek. “I never want to be silenced again,” she said quietly. “It’s the worst feeling ever.”

“That sentiment hardly places you in the minority, Nim. It’s the bane of all mage’s, but that ward you demonstrated today is lazy. It’s inefficient, and it won’t work in real combat when you’re unaware of what your opponent will throw at you.”

Nim wilted slightly at the chiding. “I know.”

Given the fatigue that always followed her training sessions with Carahil, Nim left the guild hall feeling optimistic about finally getting a good night’s rest. Her wards had improved, as her mentor noted, but not to any satisfactory degree. _Train smarter_ was the prescribed course of action, and Nim accepted the unspoken reprimanding in the order without any resistance.

The next morning, she awoke from an inadequate sleep, a couple hours dispersed throughout the night, and sighed begrudgingly as she dressed for the day because some sleep was indeed better than none. As she prepared her breakfast, she outlined her tasks for the remainder of the week. Days had passed since Bruma and still no word from Traven. _The Council must still be deliberating, _she thought with restrained rancor. They’d call on her aid eventually, after a lengthy, wasteful rumination, and she knew she would see to their needs without hesitation.

While still thinking about her upcoming responsibilities, Nim imagined that by now Fafnir would have reported on her completion of the Summitmist Manor job. Ocheeva would be expecting her back any day, and so she decided that tomorrow she would return to the Sanctuary and see through the end of the contract. Today, however, would be for her, and with a copy of _Souls, Black and White_ and Bok-Xul in her lap, she relaxed into the late afternoon until a knock on the door snapped her out of the reverie.

A courier stood before her with a letter from her dear friend Fathis Aren, the Bravil Court Wizard. She tore through the envelope like a child into a birthday gift, fevered excitement glowing on her face.

_Nim,_

_I have stumbled across something here in the Niben of the most peculiar nature and believe it may be of interest to you. Come see me if you wish. If the mystery is not beguiling enough on its own accord, I bear promises of Tamikas to tempt you._

_-Fathis_

It had been far too long since she visited with that charming, old Telvanni fetcher, and she wrote back immediately for him to expect her sometime next week. In her postscript, she included one small request:

_P.S. Too many times I’ve been tempted with wine in the foregoing days, and I promised myself that if another man made such a move, I’d turn him to charcoal. Be a dear friend and fetch us something gritty that will make me feel like I’ve been punched in the gut._

Hopefully he’d supply some of that sujamma Banus Alor had spoken so highly of. Or maybe another drink of Morrowind like greef or shein or anything unfamiliar to her. She sealed the letter with a dab of wax and chased the courier down, sprinting through the streets in search of him. How her heart soared at the invitation! Truthfully, Fathis could have invited her to stare at a pile of dirt and she still would have accepted with a great smile splitting her face.

* * *

It was late into Turdas evening by the time Nim reached Cheydinhal. After receiving her rewards from Ocheeva, she set out to offer a round of greetings to her brothers and sisters, but the Sanctuary was unusually empty. Even Vicente was out.

Nim’s mood brightened to find Antoinetta in the living quarters, and she wandered over with a small smile only for the Breton to promptly flee the room after she had said hello. Teinaava, who had seen the exchange from the corner table as he read, shrugged his shoulders and dog eared the page of his book.

“I don’t know what I said,” Nim frowned as she watched the heavy door creak closed.

“You’re a smart one, Sister,” the Argonian chuckled. “Don’t play the fool.”

Nim felt her body go rigid. _Do they know about Fort Farragut_, she thought, what she and the Speaker had done?

“Come, let’s have a drink. Antoinetta might not be pleased about it, but a congratulations is in order.”

Nim’s eyes flew open in terror. “What!” _Stendarr on a stick! He acts like it’s a rite of passage!_

Teinaava looked back at her with a bewildered smile. “Your advancement,” he stated and reached for a bottle of brandy. “Ocheeva says you’re an Assassin now.”

Relief, like a summer monsoon down a loosely packed hillside. “Oh right," she breathed out. "Thank you.” She crossed the room and accepted the goblet from Teinaava, fallings into comfortable, idle chatter as they drank. As the conversation dwindles, Nim watched as Teinaava grew distracted, an unfamiliar stiffness taking hold in the Argonian’s movements. He looked like he was biting on his tongue to keep from saying something. Nim hoped it wasn't about her, and then quickly reprimanded herself for being so self-absorbed.

“Something on your mind?” she asked instead.

“Ah well, I suppose it’s rather obvious, isn’t it?" the assassin chuckled weakly as he passed his empty goblet between his palms. "Some distressing news has come to pass my ear, and I now find myself in a delicate situation.”

Nim raised a concerned brow. “You’re not in any trouble are you?

Teinaava shook his head.

"Anything I could do to help?” she offered.

“Perhaps," he replied, flicking his tongue against the rim of his mouth as though tasting the thought first before continuing. He eyes Nim curiously for a brief moment. "But only if you’re interested."

"Well, I did offer."

"Have I told you about my life before moving to Cheydinhal?"

"Briefly."

"When Ocheeva and I trained with the Dark Brotherhood as children, we befriended another initiate, a Shadowscale by the name of Scar-Tail. The three of us were inseparable. When our training was completed, we reluctantly parted ways. But now... now, the unthinkable has happened!" The Argonian was nearly trembling with anger, the goblet clenched in his fist so tightly that his knuckles paled. "Scar-Tail has fled Black Marsh and refuses to fulfill his duties as a royal assassin!”

“I- I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Nim confessed.

“To reject one’s duty as a Shadowscale is an act of treason,” Teinaava spat, his eyes distant in memory. “I’ve come to possess knowledge of Scar-Tails whereabouts, a swamp called Bogwater in the southern end of Cyrodiil. This treachery must be punished, but just as a member of the Dark Brotherhood cannot kill a fellow family member, a Shadowscale is forbidden from slaying another Shadowscale.”

"But why did he leave?"

"It matters not, only that he has betrayed the most sacred of pacts among the Saxhleel."

Nim was fairly certain she knew what Teinaava was asking of her. They were assassins after all. “And so you would ask me to kill this Scar-Tail for you?" she queried. "One you once loved as a brother?”

He watched the alarm spreading across her face and sighed. _Oh, it must sound monstrous to her_, he thought, _to wish one of your own family dead!_

“As I said, it is a delicate matter,” he spoke softly, an understanding reminiscent of sympathy behind the orange of his eyes. “I know how this must sound to one outside the order of the Shadowscales. As much as it pains me, this is the only way to bring justice to his treachery. It is the fate of a renegade Shadowscale. When he abandoned the kingdom of Argonia, he destroyed any vestige of our relationship. I understand if you don’t wish to see it through, but if you do, bring back his heart as proof of the deed.”

Nim was silent for some time before finishing her glass of brandy. “Let me sleep on it,” she said weakly. 

“An agreeable decision,” Teinaava nodded. “So tell me about Summitmist Manor. How did you manage to avoid detection?”

She stirred in her seat, her eyes focused on the deep tawny hue of the brandy in the half-filled bottle across from her. Loyalties were such a strange thing in the Dark Brotherhood, how easy they could turn in the name of honor and duty.

* * *

Following her conversation with Teinaava, Nim decided to retire to bed early, recognizing once again how woefully behind she was on sleep. Despite this, no matter how hard she willed herself to give into its call, she found herself tossing and turning against the wool blankets, her mind racing with bloodied scenes of the past few days and now of Teinaava’s haunting request. She sighed, flinging on her robes and dragging her pack out into the main hall where she searched for a quiet corner in which to brew a sleeping draught.

Nim laid out a measly looking valerian root and crumpled sprig of lavender, and prayed to Kynareth her final product would prove stronger than chamomile tea. Slowly but steadily, the rhythm of chopping and grinding brought with it a familiar calm, and she allowed herself to relax as she watched her flame consume the kindle beneath her retort. As she waited for her equipment to heat to the desired temperature, she stood to her feet and gave her body a long stretch, taking pleasure in the way her spine crackled along its length.

“Summitmist Manor took a toll on you, didn’t it?" A tremor of shock racked Nim’s body as her silence was broken by the now familiar croon of a deep, smoke-filled voice. "I know a sleeping potion when I see one," it said.

Nim gasped and raised a hand to her chest, regaining her breath as the initial jolt of fear began to fade. Finally, she turned around to meet Lucien.

“Son of a Mudcrab," she said, her voice breathy.

Lucien didn't so much as blink. He stood in his Black Hand robes, his cowl shadowing his already dark features. A brown parcel was tucked under his arm. She thought she recognized it, then quickly shook the idea from her mind.

"You startled me," she said, irritated. "Would it kill you to let a woman know when you intend to stand behind her like a stalking shadow?”

Lucien offered her a small, amused smile. “You’re getting comfortable here. I never thought I’d see the day.”

“I’m supposed to trust family, am I not? My guard was down. What, um... what are you doing here?”

“This is my Sanctuary, dear Sister. Our Mother has received many prayers, and it is my duty to deliver them. You’ll find that there is a contract for you when you speak with Ocheeva.”

“I mean, what are you doing here speaking to me? Do we have business together?” Her tone was distant and full of suspicion. Lucien sighed.

“I expected no warmer welcome from you,” he said.

“Then I’m glad to have met your expectations.”

“I must admit you’ve surpassed them.”

Nim cocked her head, the words taking her by surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“I spoke to Fafnir about the contract in Skingrad,” he began, a much more roguish grin curling the corner of his mouth. “He said some of the guests were unrecognizable after you finished with them. I could hardly believe it. I almost wish I had time to see it for myself. Fafnir said they cleaned for two days and still they couldn’t get the blood out of the floorboards.”

“Well,” Nim shrugged, shifting her weight onto her left foot, “it was a large house.”

“You didn’t enjoy the contract then?”

“Not particularly, no.”

Lucien released a rough breath. “Shame.”

Silence thickened, save the crackling of flame beneath the retort and in the not so distant halls, the ambling rattle of bones.

“I noticed that the bonus I left for you remains unopened,” Lucien said, breaking the quiet. He set the brown package down on the table beside them. “I would like for you to open it.”

Nim looked back and forth between Lucien and the package. His eyes remained on her with rapt attention. 

“Keep it,” she said curtly. “I know how your gifts work.”

Lucien rolled his eyes. “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he said, it almost a purr, the slow languorous drawl of his voice. “It was only a bonus for the Fort Sutch contract. Honestly, I thought it would benefit you while working the Summitmist Manor job.”

He gestured toward the package, and with a sigh that spoke of both annoyance and resignation, Nim peeled a small section of the brown paper away, just enough to open a corner of the box and peek inside. It was filled with layers of tan tissue paper. Spreading the pieces apart revealed rich, dark velvet, and the subtle tingle of magicka radiated from the fabric as she ran her finger across it.

“A charm augmentation?” she queried as she traced the brocade at the sleeve. She concentrated on the aura of spellwork, recognized the potent weave of illusion magic embedded into the seams. A small smirk grew on her face. “Is this your way of letting me know that you think I’m not personable enough?”

Lucien humored her, his eyes watching her reaction intently. “You clearly needed no help from me in Skingrad. Perhaps I overstepped.”

“You’re right. I didn’t.”

“That’s all?” He frowned and gestured again toward the box. “Open it.”

Nim gazed at him blankly for a long moment before removing the rest of the tissue paper. Underneath was a lavish outfit made of black and burgundy velvet. A trim of brown mink lined the gold brocade inlays. It was a gown made for nobility. Not only beautiful. Opulent.

_Iron of Zenithar, how much money did this man have? _Nim bit the tip of her tongue. It was expertly enchanted and all manners of self-indulgent and she hated herself for enjoying the feel of the smooth velvet between her fingers. It was too much in all its dimensions. And now it was hers. But at what cost?

“It’s a lovely dress,” she began, her voice a cracked whisper. Quickly, she cleared her throat. “Would have saved me a pretty penny from buying my own while in Skingrad.” Lucien watched with a pleased expression. Despite the flatness in her voice, her eyes brightened as they roamed over the garment, savoring the delicate craftwork interlaced in gold thread. “Honestly, it’s a good thing I didn’t wear it on the contract. Blood is nearly impossible to get out of velvet.”

“I take time to find what suits you, Nimileth. I understand you better than you think.”

“That makes one of us,” she murmured and began refolding the dress to tuck it back into the box. “It really is a lovely bonus. Thank you.” The phrase felt like defeat in her mouth. Why was she accepting it? 

“I think deeply of you,” he continued, taking a step closer and reaching out as though to grasp her shoulders. Nim jerked away as he lifted a hand to her. She clutched the box in her arms close to her body, shielding herself from him as she tucked a loose strand of frizzy hair behind her ear.

“That makes one of us,” she said again, this time with icy stiffness. She looked at him expectantly and rocked back on her heels. “Is there anything else, Speaker, or can I get back to what I was doing?”

She held his stare, recognizing the unspoken challenge in its intensity. Lucien opened his mouth, paused, bit the corner of his lower lip, and took a breath.

“I thought perhaps we could talk,” he said coolly despite the smolder in his eyes.

“About what, my contract?”

“Mmm,” he hummed. “No.”

“About… the surrounding provinces?”

“No."

Nim stared at him with an unamused frown, dreading the rest of his sentence as he parted his lips to speak.

"It’s come to my attention that--”

“Whatever it is, I’d rather we keep our conversation to strictly business,” she cut in. “Unless it’s about my contract I’m afraid I have nothing to offer you.”

At her sudden interruption, a flare of temper blazed across Lucien's eyes. “Strictly business,” he repeated with hoarse venom clogging his throat. “How professional of you. I find it strange how I’m the only one to receive such cold, official treatment when you’ve already shown me how hot-blooded you can be.”

“Yes, how strange indeed.”

“That sharp tongue of yours is going to lead you to trouble, Nimileth,” he reprimanded. “It would be wise of you to blunt it. My patience wears thin.”

“Is that an order?" she frowned again. "You know, I’ve always had a bit of difficulty dealing with authority.”

“Is that so?” He mocked, and his simper was positively wolfish as he stared her down, as though attempting to level her with it. “Dear girl, if it was order, you would surely fail and by morning the Wrath of Sithis would be upon you. It has been some time since our Sanctuary had to deal with such disobedience. Do not tempt me.”

“Ah," Nim shrugged. "Well, if it’s not an order--”

“Nevertheless, you seem to forget that I am your Speaker. I find such a lapse in memory concerning.”

“Oh, that’s right!" She cried out, beaming, and clasped her hands. "You’re my superior! Forgive me, I’m afraid our recent encounter muddied the waters a bit. I didn’t realize that taking your subordinates to bed was just you asserting your authority.” Nim held her smug grin, waiting for him to reply or to leave her. Lucien did neither. Whatever she had said seemed to entertain the fiendish sense of humor he possessed, and he looked at her with an unexpected eagerness.

Sensing he was not likely to take his leave, Nim let her facade fade and released a frustrated huff. She crossed her arms. “Please, Lucien. I’ve had a rotten few days. I’m not up for banter and certainly not much company right now.”

Lucien hummed as though mulling over her words. “Then perhaps I could distract you."

She eyed him through narrowed lids. “Perhaps you didn’t hear what I said before. The idea of entertaining a conversation with you is the furthest thing from my mind right now.”

“And so, we needn’t speak if that’s what you wish," he offered, voice nearly a purr. "There are plenty of other ways to entertain. I know of remedies to cure sleeplessness if you do so desire it.”

Nim gave him a stare so full of fatigue she looked as thought she might faint. “I’d first watch stalagmites grow.”

“Harsh words,” he admonished with a muted scoff and shook his head softly. “Tell me then, what is on your mind that keeps you tossing and turning? What troubles you?”

“I think I like this act less than when you were leering at me. Pretending like you have any sense of compassion, it doesn’t suit you.”

“I’m not acting, dear Sister. You’re an assassin under my roof, and you need a clear mind to do your work, especially what comes next. Despite how ungrateful and ill-behaved you’ve been toward me, I care for you in my way.”

Nim arched a brow, the skepticism obvious across her face.

“As your Speaker, I concern myself with your well-being. It’s my responsibility to see that you are taken care of. You may not understand it now, but one day I know you will. One day sooner than you think.”

“That’s not at all ominous or cryptic,” she mumbled. “And what exactly is your idea of comfort?”

“I can be an ear, if nothing else.”

Nim paused, entertaining the thought for longer than she knew was wise. Even if she wanted to talk to him, telling him of her troubles would be pointless. She doubted that Lucien ever laid awake at night with guilt eating away at him, gnawing down, down, down to the bottom of his soul. What would the Speaker know of remorse, of shame?

She met with a bare frown and shrugged her shoulders dismissively. “I shouldn’t trouble you with personal affairs. I'm sure you have… things to do. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll keep working on my alchemy.”

Lucien smirked. “I don’t mind.”

He took a seat at the table and motioned with his hand to let Nim know she was free to continue. He pulled back his hood and propped his feet up on a nearby chair, watching as she worked with a sharp irritation on her face. As time passed, however, her features softened to stillness and it was not the vacant slate he had grown accustomed to. She looked relaxed, serene, almost buoyant as she fell into a familiar series of steps.

Nim moved the preparation for her sleeping draught to the retort and let it simmer. She chopped the rest of the ingredients she had picked up in Skingrad to restock her poison reserves, starting with the lotus seeds and then moving to the wisp stalks. The bubbling of the distillery sang like a soft melody to which her hands danced, chopping and grinding and chopping and grinding in a potent, deadly rhythm.

“What are you making now?” Lucien asked, watching the fluid movements of her dexterous fingers. “May I ask that, or is it too personal?”

Nim released a faint laugh, to indulge him. “No, it's not. Just a few poisons that I've run out of after the last contract. I thought I'd make some more. You never know when they’ll come in handy.”

Lucien nodded, his expression satisfied, and after a few more minutes he commented again.

“I’ve never seen you in such tranquility before.”

“Well then please don’t ruin it for me,” she grinned.

“And this is what calms you after a bad day?”

“Yes,” she said, her tone clipped. Glancing up, she saw Lucien frowning in disapproval. “What, you object? I wouldn't be an alchemist if I didn't find joy in the work. Besides, everybody needs to sleep.”

“It’s rather pedestrian. Far too tame,” he said with a casual shrug and his heavy brows lifted to their neutral state. “If you're really feeling so terrible, how can you work out any strong emotions by grinding away at seeds? Even if the sleeping potion works as intended, won’t the feelings that kept you awake linger the next day?”

“There are more than just physical releases, Lucien. It’s psychological. It’s emotional. Sometimes a bit of calm and a good night's rest really is all you need to clear your head. I suppose you find a new victim every time you need to destress, don’t you?”

He nodded. “If I’ve really had such a terrible day, then yes. There is no equivalent.”

Nim returned her attention to the simmering retort, suppressed a scoff. “How primitive.” 

“A simple solution does not mean it is without sophistication.”

“I think it does, actually,” she replied, her hands grinding away. “I think that is what the word ‘simple’ means.”

“Mhm,” he grunted. “I didn’t realize we had a linguist in our midsts.”

Nim had to stop herself from letting her eyes wind backwards into her skull and bit her tongue to contain her laughter. Lucien continued.

“What I mean to say is a physical release is far more powerful, more efficient. Surely you’re aware of this.” He paused, a playful chuckle sounding from the back of his throat. “Who am I kidding? Of course, you're not.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I notice you do your fair share of sulking while you’re here," he said with a hint of smugness. "It’s not wise for an assassin to be so sentimental. It’s distracting. It leads to error. Guilt is a senseless burden, and you waste your energy in musing on it. All the souls you claimed were destined for Sitihis. Their fates were sealed long ago, and you merely guided them into the Void. Relish in that glory. Savor it.” When she failed to react, Lucien leaned in closer, tested the tension between them by laying a hand on hers. “You would benefit from exploring more tangible avenues to release whatever maudlin feelings are weighing you down.”

Nim met the man with a thin, cautious smile.

“Well, there is truth to that,” she said, pulling her hand out from beneath his. She focused on pouring the contents of her retort into a small vial. “Back on the Waterfront I used to lob fireballs at the mudcrabs to get the anger out. Depending on how mild you made your spell, you could go fetch them and bring them home for dinner afterward. They were steamed right in their own carapace, talk about efficiency.”

She smiled at the memory of that simple, guiltless life with Methredhel and Amusei. She had been a thief for most of her life and never felt shame for stealing material objects from the wealthy. In fact she had bragged about it rather frequently to her fellow guildmates. Those were simpler days, when unwinding meant meeting for beers, getting thoroughly hammered, and betting on who could walk the Waterfront retaining wall without falling into Lake Rumare.

“I suppose hunting does have a rather calming effect too," she continued. "That's a sport. But I'd hardly consider hunting deer to be particularly physical. Waiting in the tree stand with nothing to focus on but the rustle of brush below you, the gentle whispers of the mounting breeze. It's mostly twiddling one's thumbs while sitting in place."

"In the case of deer hunting perhaps," Lucien noted.

Nim gave him a sideways look as she ground the wisp stalks into a crumbled mixture. She could tell, even in her periphery, that he was still smirking. "As opposed to?" 

"Hunting men. Much more adrenaline filled a sport."

Lucien grinned proudly at first, his smile falling when he realized that Nim lacked the grace to feign even an iota of appreciation for his comment.

“Why am I still speaking with you?” She shook her head, frustration wrinkling her brow.

“Perhaps you need a more effective way to release your anger,” he proposed, and a new attentiveness danced across the oak of his eyes.

Throwing a cautious glance his way, Nim's eyes settled over the lines of his face, the angles, the contours, all accentuated by the shadows cast in the flickering light of the candles set before her. She noted the ruggedness of stubble growing along his jaw, a subtle cleft in his chin that she hadn’t been aware of before. He radiated a strange warmth, not welcoming but neither scathing. It reminded her of hickory smoke and cinders.

Each time she spoke with him, he seemed a different person in some way, like a chameleon constantly shifting. Or maybe she had never before looked closely in clear, sober lighting, and she imagined he’d look even stranger in the brightness of day.

“Are you asking because you have a suggestion?” she said at last.

Lucien's hand found her thigh beneath the table, and her eyes widened as she stared down at it.

“Well, I can certainly think of a remedy,” he cooed.

A burst of laughter rose in Nim’s throat and broke sharp and sudden against his ears. His grip on her tightened, but she quickly swept his prying fingers away, the wild cackle still ringing past her lips.

“You’re joking right? You can’t possibly think I--”

Her voice died in her throat as his hand returned, this time pressing softly against her face, his thumb stroking along the prominence of her cheekbone and trailing down to the corner of her mouth.

“Tell me you didn’t enjoy the things I did to you,” he whispered.

She stared, nonplussed by his sudden advancement, and when at last she spoke her voice was brittle. “Honestly, I think you enjoyed them more than I did.”

Lucien’s chuckle was smooth and lilting, a plume of smoke rising into the air, lapping at the edges of the room. He ran his thumb across her lip. “So tell me what you enjoy,” he said, whispering the invitation as he brought himself closer to her mouth. His nose barely brushed the tip of her own.

Gaining control of herself after the moment of shock passed, Nim pulled herself backward against the chair.

“It’s the dress, isn’t it? You think you can purchase my affections. Mara’s holy knickers, Lucien, you’re helpless if you think that’s what I respond to. Take it back if that’s what you want from me.” 

“I’m sure you’d feel differently if it were a bottle of wine,” he sneered, and Nim laughed to the point of losing breath at the indignation souring his face.

“You have no social barometer whatsoever! If you’re in such an amorous mood, go find Antoinetta and leave me be. She’d be happy to throw herself at you.”

“If you think that’s what I want then you really don’t know me at all.”

“I never claimed to," she scoffed, still laughing. "And you say you don’t want her now, but in a few minutes when you leave this conversation unsatisfied, I’m sure you’ll seek her out.”

“So what do you respond to them, hmm? Poems and a bouquet of roses,” he teased. “You wish to be courted properly, then? Should I have brought my lyre?”

“It wouldn’t hurt. Maybe you could dress up as a mudcrab while you’re at it.”

Lucien arched a brow, his lips twisting mischievously. “I didn’t realize there was so much to be desired of my appearance.”

“I don’t mean you’re terrible to look at, I just--” She stopped, shook her head firmly. “What happened in Fort Farragut is not to be repeated.”

He leered at her. “But not because you didn’t like it. No one is that talented of an actress.”

“Lucien, you had me trapped,” she bit out.

“You expect me to believe that you wouldn’t have left if you really wanted to? You’re not as weak as you pretend to be. You made a choice, Sister. We both know it.”

“You’re _crazy_.”

"Tell me then, do you regret it?" he asked and watched smugly as blush spread across her cheeks.

"No, but don't pride yourself on that fact. I did only what I needed to in that moment. It was a matter of survival."

"Mhm. That's what I thought." 

Nim scoffed and turned away. "You're repulsive. Why do I bother explaining these things?”

She heard Lucien drum his fingers against the table and knew he was thinking, calculating his next move while he watched her. The sound grew grating against her ear and curiously, she looked his way. His expression was peeved, but his eyes were hungered.

_This man, _she groaned internally, _how can someone exist as one giant appetite? _

She stared him down and for a second, she pictured him as a one of the mudcrabs she used to shoot fireballs at, his squat body still dressed in black robes flying into Lake Rumare with an unceremonious _splash._ A grin quivered involuntarily on her lips.

Having caught the distraction in her eyes, Lucien descended upon her once more. He swept the hair away from her neck, peppered kisses there that turned the mounting laughter in her throat to a breathy gasp. His hand cupped her nape and he pulled her against him, surprised at the lack of resistance he met as his free hand travelled down her robes to encircle her waist. Her shallow, trembling breaths blew against his ear and sent stifling desire coursing through him. He squeezed tighter.

“Lucien.” His name was a smothered cry between gasps. “You’re crazy.”

“Worse,” he moaned into the pulse of her throat, “I’m terribly sane.”

Nim pushed him away from her with both hands. He bounced backward in his chair, the legs creaking beneath the force. She felt her skin tingling where he had kissed her. Goose bumps rose across her arms and she pulled them close to rub the prickles away. Her stomach lurched and it was not with the disgust or outrage she had anticipated. A shameful excitement rose within her, and she sunk her teeth into her lips, willing it away.

“We can’t do this again,” she murmured. Her eyes darted around the room and she found herself unsure of whether she wanted to find anyone else in their presence. Lucien reached out toward her cheek and stroked the florid, coral bloom that radiated across her dark skin. She brushed him away, but the heat remained searing on her face, drawing her toward him, and she hated herself for it even more.

“Why,” he said, though there was no question in his voice.

He leaned forward, hovering his lips at the corner of her mouth. She pushed against his chest, not firmly, and breathed in campfire smoke and the sharpness of crushed pine needles. His fingers ground against the bones at her shoulder, pulling her closer, and she felt herself leaning too. Lucien cupped the side of her jaw in his hand, lifting her face toward him as he brought his mouth to hers.

“You’re crazy,” Nim repeated, a low hush this time as the fevered kiss racked through her. Nim closed her eyes, imagining the whisper of another man across her mouth, the last traces of orange, stone flower, and spices lingering there. She chased the memory desperately across her lips and a small whimper escaped them as she replayed scenes of the previous days in her mind.

Bruma, the guild on fire, the scent of her friends burning corpses cloying in her lungs. Raminus, his eyes of lush moss calm and soft against her but always distant and declining. Dovesi and Primo entwined in blood, the comfort they found in each other’s arms now undying, everlasting.

Nim felt the brush of stubble across her cheek. She imagined her body drowning in another man’s arms, beneath hands that spoke in arcane rhythms, fingers strong enough to burden yet kind enough to heal. She held his name at her teeth, biting on the memory of Raminus and his heartbeat now just the echo of building pressure in her chest.

Was this the only solace she deserved, consolation in the arms of a murderous sociopath? Was this the punishment she had longed for, the one she had earned? Or perhaps it was neither and greater punishments still awaited her in the days to come. Perhaps this was simply the only vice that lay within proximity. Her sleeping draught. Her poison.

Nim met Lucien with half-lidded eyes and no resistance as he deepened their kiss. She murmured something softly, and he pulled away just an inch to hear her speak.

“What did you say?” he asked meeting eyes that gleamed with the verdure of jade. Eyes filled by burrowing shame.

“I said, _not here_.”

A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth as he watched the blush glow across the apples of her cheeks. Nim looked away nervously and brought her hand to her amulet, fiddling and tugging at the copper chain.

“Then where?” he asked her.

She glanced around the hall, relief washing over her when she found it was still empty.

* * *

Nim’s eyes fluttered open against the amorphous silver glow that greeted her through the latticed window. The bed warped comfortably to her frame and she felt the relief of deep, dreamless rest lingering in her muscles. She rubbed her eyelids, swollen with sleep, and realized the mattress beside her was empty. The rich scent of freshly brewed coffee quickly flooded her senses, and she lifted herself off the bed to peer around the room with squinted eyes.

“Looking for something?” Lucien’s voice interrupted. She followed the sound to the small dining table in the corner of the room they had rented at the Newland’s Lodge and found the Speaker sitting in his common clothes with a copy of _The Black Horse Courier. _He sipped from a steaming mug of coffee and watched her smooth her wispy hair down, tucking it behind her ears. The table was set across from him with a small spread of fruits, smoked meats, and bread.

Nim leaned back on her arms and gazed out the window. The sun had not yet risen over the Valus mountains, and its pale light scattered weakly through the blanket of clouds above. 

“I’m surprised you’re still here,” she yawned. “I pinned you for the type to slip away in the night.”

“Not everyone is rude enough to leave without saying goodbye.”

“Hmph, and you’re nothing short of a gentleman.”

Nim stretched her arms above her head and slowly dragged her legs over the edge of the bed. Without bothering to dress herself, she draped the quilted throw over her shoulders, cocooning herself in its warmth, and took the seat across from Lucien at the table.

“Coffee _and _breakfast?” She mused as she picked up a handful of blackberries. “How domestic.”

“I have a light schedule this morning,” he replied, a dryness to his tone.

“Well, how lucky am I that you’d spend all of your free time with me.”

He turned the page, took a sip of his coffee. “Some might be more grateful.”

“This is cozy. It’s like we’re an old married couple or something. Pretty soon we’ll be fighting over household chores and childcare and you’ll be telling me that I sound just like your mother.”

Lucien raised a brow as he peered over his paper. “I told you I’m not so one-dimensional.”

“Forget I said that,” she murmured and blew the steam from the surface of her mug. In the center of the table, a plate of bright red berries and grey rounds of sliced vegetable caught her eye. “What are these?”

“They’re comberries and ash yams. You said you wanted to try them, and this is a Dark Elf owned establishment. They sell a variety of goods native to Morrowind here.”

“Oh, did I say that?”

Lucien nodded and she dipped a spoon into the bowl. She licked the syrupy concoction and a pleasant tang spread across her tongue. She hardly remembered telling Lucien of such desires, but she did recall a very intoxicated conversation about fruits and vegetables during the party at the Sanctuary. Strange how he chose to remember this detail.

“Wow, that’s rather… sweet.” And the fact that she wasn’t referring solely to the comberry sauce made her stomach lurch. “Thank you.” The words tingled on her lips with the spreading warmth of hot coffee.

Lucien joined her, cutting into a slice of ash yam and helping himself to several rashers of bacon. She watched him cautiously as she chewed_. Just what does he want from me now?_

“You kick in your sleep,” the Imperial stated flatly as he lifted a square of yam to his mouth. Nim could see the curls forming at the corner of his lips despite the coolness in his tone.

“It’s better than snoring.”

“I do not snore,” he said sternly.

“You grunt,” she corrected. “That’s not much better. Bad dreams?”

Lucien stared at her for several seconds, chewing silently before replying. “I don’t often remember my dreams.”

“It doesn’t come naturally for most. You have to work at it.”

“Oh, how so?”

“Leave some parchment on your nightstand. As soon as you wake up, write them down. Push yourself to recall the faces you dreamt of. Draw them if you can. What did you hear, what did you feel? Fear, desire, excitement? It gets easier the more you do it.”

“Is that what you do?” he asked, a hint of intrigue in his eyes. “Do you keep a journal of your dreams?”

“At some point I did. The Gods and … other deities come to you in your dreams sometimes, and the only way you can respond to their message is if you remember what they say. And sometimes the only messages you find are those that you’ve been trying to keep from yourself while awake.” Nim looked up from her plate to find Lucien smirking. “Don’t laugh. Sithis has probably come to you in your sleep too, and there you are smirking instead of heading his call.”

“Do tell, Sister. What is Sithis asking of me?”

“He’s probably asking that you nurture stronger platonic relationships and stop sleeping with your assassins.”

Lucien stifled his laughter, arched a sly brow. “Sithis does not want us to resist temptation when it calls. Life is far too short for that.”

Nim rolled her eyes and stretched her legs out beneath the table, propping her feet up on his thigh before continuing with her breakfast. 

“You seem to be in better spirits today,” he mused.

“It’s too early in the day for me to dwell on things. The doldrums usually strike by midmorning.”

Lucien’s left hand travelled up and down the length of her leg as he read, his touch unusually feather-like. Nim debated whether she wanted to remove it.

“These are really good, you know,” she said sheepishly, a mouth half full of comberries.

Lucien smiled and kept his eyes on his paper.

They ate in silence.

After some time, Nim got up to snoop about the room, found a comb at the back of a drawer and took to wrangling her hair. She wondered why Lucien was still loitering about across the table from her when he had already finished his breakfast. Most of their meal was gone, and the two of them were idly sipping on the last of the coffee as he read. In between bouts of detangling, Nim scraped away at the bottom of the comberry bowl, and her eyes kept flickering over to her Speaker. He looked so serious, even now in this perfect stillness.

As though sensing her eyes upon him, Lucien looked up from his newspaper. Nim frowned at him. He quirked a brow.

“This is terribly cruel of you,” she said, then pursed her lips into a tight bud as she tugged at a defiant knot in her hair.

“Pardon?” he asked and lifted his mug to his mouth.

“This is so unfair to Antoinetta.”

Lucien sputtered on his coffee, spilling a stray mouthful down the front of his shirt. “Antoinetta?”

Nim released an exasperated sigh, and even he could tell her vexation was genuine. “She’s so madly in love with you. How can you treat her like you do?”

“And what would you know of how I treat Antoinetta?” he asked, the quirk of his brow growing higher as his expression shifted from curiosity to amusement. He dabbed at the liquid on his shirt with a napkin.

“I- I suppose I don’t know all that much, but it doesn’t take a scholar to see that there are unreciprocated feelings between the two of you.”

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous,” he teased.

Nim’s mouth fell wide open and she looked at Lucien as though he had grown a third eye. “Of what?” she asked, her voice teaming with confusion. “Just tell her you’re not interested instead of giving her false hope.”

“But I am interested in her.”

“Don’t be vile," she berated him with a firm glower. "Some individuals have feelings outside of their loins. You could at least be more subtle. She’s a sensitive woman. Sometimes I worry - you know what, forget it. It’s none of my business.”

“You are jealous,” he needled.

“Please," she groaned and stood from the table in search of her clothes. “Your voice is like rattling tin in my ears, dear Speaker. You wish I put that much thought into you.”

“Tell me you don’t think of me.”

Nim spun around and stared at him, stunned by the pompous certainty in his tone. She placed a hand on her hip and glared down at his smug little smile as though she could wipe it off his face if she only glared sharply enough.

“The moment I walk out of this tavern, I will strike your existence from my mind,” she told him.

Lucien gave her a lecherous grin, revealing a row of white teeth. “Then maybe I should give you a memory worth returning to.”

Without warning, he pulled Nim onto his lap, holding her shoulders in one arm and letting his free hand travel up the skin of her thigh to rest at her hip.

“Oh, don’t you flatter yourself,” she sneered. She wrapped an arm around his neck, licked her pointer finger, and dug it into his ear. Lucien squirmed, a hoarse yelp catching in his throat, and Nim used the distraction to nip his ear lobe. His blood raced like fire at the warm breath she whispered into it. “Nothing you do to me could ever be so memorable.”

“You’re trying to rile me,” he growled, squeezing her hips so hard she winced beneath him.

Nim jabbed her fingers into his armpit and tickled him. His unexpected laughter roared into the room and he fought against her hands, quick and agile as they moved from side to side along his chest. He squealed and nearly dropped her onto the floor out of reflex before he seized both of her wrists in his hand and pinned them against the wall above her.

“Is it working?” she smirked, blowing a stray rust-colored lock away from her eyes. “Are you riled?” 

Lucien responded by hauling her into his arms and throwing her onto the bed yet again. She took that as an affirmative answer to her question.

* * *

It must have been midmorning now, and Nim couldn’t for the life of her understand what had possessed her to act yet again on such wanton urges. She rested the back of her palm against her forehead and stared into the wooden rafters above.

“Don’t look so guilty, Nimileth.”

“I don’t know what’s gotten into me lately,” she sighed ruefully. “All lechery and impulse.”

Lucien laughed. “What’s wrong with that?" he asked. "You brood too much. It will be your downfall.”

With deep satisfaction warming his face, he coiled his arms around her and ran his fingers up the base of her neck and into her hair, pulling a handful of the messy tresses closer to him. She smelled like crushed blackberries, fresh earth after rain, innocence that he knew better than to believe. He traced the scarlet bruise on her shoulder where he had bitten her and smirked pridefully.

“Merciful Stendarr, when did I become such a heathen?” Nim whispered, absentmindedly pulling at the fine black hairs at the nape of his neck to give her hands something to do. She wrapped them around her finger, unfurled them and repeated. The beat of his heart echoed against the shell of her ear.

“Do you truly believe you were ever anything else?”

“I did.”

Lucien hummed to himself and lifted her chin up to face him, running a thumb along the length of her lower lip.

“You are a daughter of Sithis," he said, "and you are worthy of things greater than contrition. I see his chaos in your eyes. The sooner you stop denying it, the sooner you will find solace in his shadowed embrace.”

Lucien kissed her and she returned it though much weaker than before when their bodies were wrapped around one another, moving with a frantic, desperate rhythm. When he pulled back, Nim stared, dark juniper eyes sparkling in the thin ray of sun with a maudlin glaze, and they were not looking at him. Slowly, her features softened to resting vacancy.

“Lucien,” she started. He watched his name form on her lips and even though he held her in his arms she felt somehow miles away. She looked through him, those eyes like glass. “We can’t be making a habit of this.”

“And what do you mean by _this?_”

“I mean these meetings, the gifts, the accelerated advancements. I don’t care what you call it, I just know that you want something from me that I can’t give you.”

“Perhaps I enjoy your company,” he chuckled into the pulse of her neck. “Is that really so unbelievable?”

"Lucien." Nim tried to pull away, but his lips lingered there at her throat, sending shivers across her body with each breath. She tried again, succeeding this time, and shifted her focus to him with an unfamiliar severity. "You don’t have to tell me what you want. I just need you to understand that I have nothing to give you.”

“You don’t know of the destruction you cause. It’s almost endearing, the vehemence with which you deny it.” He kissed her deeply, felt her tighten against him. “But I will show you.”

He fell quiet and to Nim the bareness of their skin in silence felt more illicit than anything they had done in the preceding hour. They lay there as the seconds stretched on, his hands roaming over her, her fingers entwined in his long, black hair, and though eventually her body fell pliant beneath his grasp, Nim's gaze remained rigid and unyielding.

“When I leave you today," Lucien began again, "it will be to conduct business with the Black Hand. The next time we see each other will be under very different circumstances. You will understand then. I will make it so.”

“The next time?”

“Days, maybe weeks from now. Unless chance would have it that I see you on the road. I may find myself unable to stay away.”

“I pray you don’t then,” she snorted.

“You test me,” he said with a clear, sharp edge. “There will be a time when I will test your skills and loyalty to Sithis, your loyalty to me.”

_Loyalty. _

Nim thought of Teinaava and Scar-Tail. She didn’t like hearing that word on an assassin’s lips. “Why are you being so cryptic again?”

“I’m almost tempted to tell you, but I must not. We must keep patience.”

“Tell me what?”

He traced a finger over the line of her collarbone, his eyes thirsting as he twirled the chain of her amulet around his finger. Nim shifted in his arms. The muscles in her body screamed to flee.

“About how our new life together will begin.”

_Our new life together?_

_Together? _

Nim pried herself out of his grasp. “Lucien, I mean it. This is the last time. Whatever you think is happening, it’s just--“

“Just what?” Lucien drew away and waited expectantly for an answer. His eyes were now hard against her, and she pursed her lips. “Answer me,” he demanded, voice full of steel.

“We’re just… blowing off steam.”

Silence. And then bitter cold iced over his features.

“I see," he said and rose slowly from the bed.

“What else would it be?" she asked him curiously. "You’re the one that said a physical release is more efficient. You’re the one who offered.” She paused, chewing on her lip. “What did you want it to be?” She watched as his jaw clenched.

Lucien looked over his shoulder, his glare relentlessly gelid, and she quickly tugged the covers over her body, shielding herself from his view. She shifted beneath the sheets, daring to hold eye-contact, and he sneered at her contemptuously

To Nim, Lucien did indeed look different in the light of day. Less akin to shadow. In that moment, he looked more human than she had ever seen him before. She scanned his eyes and found an anger like rusted knives directed back at her, but that was not all she saw. She held her breath, attempting to make sense of the wounded expression that flickered for only a fleeting glimpse in the deep brown of his eyes.

Her face contorted, her mind reflecting on this bizarre dance they engaged in, a game of leaping over a bonfire, brushing one’s skirt against the embers. And what could he possibly want with her now that left him seething?

_Our new life together._

He couldn’t mean it. What future could the two of them ever have? Nim released a scoff that rose to rasping laughter. What an absurd thought it was, the esteemed Speaker experiencing heartache as though such a murderous, lecherous sociopath was even capable of such tender emotion.

“You’re joking,” she finally stammered out, still chuckling. Lucien's scowl had turned caustic. He looked ready to strangle her in the next breath, but Nim could not control the raucous sound released from the pit of her belly. “Lucien, we nearly killed each other a few weeks ago. Why would this be anything more than--"

“Than what,” he hissed. “A quick fuck?”

“Yes,” she spat back at him, her stare sharpening to meet his. “Quick, convenient. However you want to spell it.”

Lucien stood swiftly and grabbed his robes off the back of the seat, yanking them with such fury that the chair toppled over with a loud _crack._ She turned to face him and bit her lip, watching in mild amusement as he began dressing, the anger in his movements palpable.

“You really enjoy testing the waters," he said. "I have been wading up to my eyes in your insolence, and I cannot wait until the day you drive me to the limits of my patience.” 

“Don’t be so dramatic, Lucien,” she sighed. “I know that this is a thing you do with new women in the Sanctuary. Would you prefer it had I never crawled into your bed at all?”

She snickered to herself and Lucien lunged for her, pinning her to the bed by her throat.

“You ungrateful witch," he snarled, all ice in his expression now thawed by simmering, roiling heat. "You don’t know what I’ve given you, how easy it would be for me to take it all away. Silly girl. Silly, stubborn girl. You would be _nothing_ without me.”

Nim squirmed beneath him, working the fingers around her neck loose and readying a flame spell in her palms. Fear flashed across her eyes and fled in the same moment, leaving only a burning trail of anger in its wake.

“You don’t scare me,” she sneered, her hands hot with the imminence of magical flame as she pulled at his fingers caged around her. "Not the last time you threatened me and not now."

“Then you’re a godsdamned fool,” he growled, teeth bared. Behind his eyes was a whirlwind, rage setting aflame the hickory bark of his irises.

He breathed roughly, loosened his grip, and Nim used the newfound slack in his fingers to wriggle her own into the space between his palm and her throat. Lucien let her go, but not without reluctance.

“I’ve shown you too much leniency," he said. "Dear Sister, you best learn to speak to me with respect. I am your Speaker. I am the head of your Sanctuary, and you will treat me as such otherwise I will keep your pretty, little words in mind the next time I see you. For both of our sake, I do hope you learn how to put up a stronger fight. How I ache for a real challenge.”

“Gods,” she said through gritted teeth, “you are repellent.”

Lucien scoffed and peeled away from her. He sat himself at the edge of the bed, taking a deep breath as he felt the heated blood drain from his face. He laced his boots.

“I may be so, but you let me fuck you. What does that make you? You give me the same dry, phlegmatic treatment every time we meet. You push me away. You call me sweet pet names like _disgusting_ and _vile,_ yet you let me inside you every time.”

Nim fanned herself with her fingers and sighed theatrically. “I had no idea you were such a wordsmith, Lucien," she purred and batted her lashes, looking well the part of an enamored lover. "You really do know just what a girl wants to hear.”

Lucien was now plodding across the room in desperate search for his last glove, and Nim spied it peeking out from beneath his pillow. She waited to see how long it would take for him to find it before he gave up.

“Lie to yourself if that makes it easier for you to pray to your pitiful Gods at night. Hold onto the fantasy that you walk in virtue, that you’re any different from me, but you’re just as rife with malice and greed as the worst of us. We both know what you are, Nimileth. Nobody could ever love a miserable thing like you.”

Nim bit down on her teeth until the bones of her jaw ached. And who was he to say such a thing? Who was he? She dropped her expression to a blank slate and crawled out from beneath the mess of sheets.

“Well this was positively riveting,” she drawled and reached beneath the pillow for Lucien's lost glove and her rumpled clothes. “I didn’t realize domestic life could get so heated. Here, darling.” She held the glove out to him, and he snatched it away, shoving his hand into it before making for the door.

“What you aren’t going to kiss me goodbye?” she bit out with a taunting glare and slipped her shirt over her head, “and here I thought we were devoted lovers.”

Lucien stared at her with one hand on the doorknob and the other balled into a tight fist. He clenched his jaw and Nim could see the veins along his temple popping there against the straining muscle. To her surprise he stepped closer, and she flinched when he set a knee on the bed and leaned forward. He looked at her sternly, like a father reprimanding her for a childish tantrum.

“I know you, Nimileth. You forget that.” He took her hand in his and breathed deeply, a soft, exasperated chiding in his voice. His eyes wandered down to her neck, savoring the scarlet warmth of the markings in the shape of his hand encircling her throat. He smiled fondly, and Nim felt her stomach turn. “Make sure you see Ocheeva before you leave,” he said and placed a light kiss on the back of her knuckles.

Nim tucked her knees up to her chest and watched him go. She waited like that for several minutes and cast a detection spell to make sure she was truly rid of his presence. When she was certain that she was alone, she gathered her belongings and made for the baths. Soaking into the hot water, Nim thought of what he had told her and admitted that she was playing dangerously close to an unforgiving fire. She wasn’t certain whether or not she had already been burned. 


	25. A Blood Stained To Do List - I

**Chapter 25: A Bloodstained To Do List - Part I**

Another sticky, breezeless day in the lower Niben, another assassination plot. What had her life come to? If Adamus Phillida were a Skooma Lord instead of a retired Legionnaire Commander, Nim could close her eyes and pretend that she had never left Leyawiin and her life as juvenile delinquent all those days ago.

It had been almost three years since she last called the soggy Nibenese town her home, but she still knew the cityscape like the lines of her palm. All the secret passages and flows throughout the urban sprawl had been etched into her brain on those nights she spent running among Renrijra Krin thugs with J’rasha at her heels. Ah the days of her freedom, of young love and novel crime!

So much had transpired in the recent years of her life, and yet she decided that some things never truly change at all. She still walked among shadows, now in finer clothing, and Leywaiin was still the same soggy town of her youth minus one bigoted Imperial countess sitting in the castle throne room. That alone made the stagnant humidity a touch more bearable.

Crouched within the shadows cast by the eaves of the rickety houses, Nim awaited Phillida’s return with her bow strung and the Rose of Sithis held in her finger tips. It only took a few days of stalking to learn his routine. He had a fondness for the pond in the eastern part of town and partook in a daily swim around its perimeter. There was no way she could pass this off as accidental, but that wasn’t the Brotherhoods intention. Ocheeva had been quite clear in her instruction.

_Leave a message._

* * *

Philida’s assassination had been so laughably simple that Nim didn’t quite understand what the big fuss surrounding the retired commander was all about. At the end of the day, he was just another man past his prime that she had been assigned to kill; soft, comfortable, and unguarded in his old age. Well, that last part wasn’t entirely true. Philida was no idiot. He made sure he had a guard posted to watch over him as he swam, and it wasn’t Philida’s nor the poor guard’s fault that Imperials were not immune to a strong paralysis spell.

That said, Nim had no doubt that even though retired, Phillida could beat her with one arm tied behind him if it came to a battle of pure brawn. Fortunately, she experienced surprisingly little physical confrontation for someone in her line of work, but the weakness of her size and strength was never far from thought. Vicente had made sure to drill it into her.

Outside the city gate, Nim looked to the severed finger which she held in her possession… now that had been slightly trickier. It would be several days until she planned to trek north to the Imperial City and slip the finger into the desk of Commander Phillida's successor. She wrapped the small appendage in frost salts and cheese cloth before tucking it into the small pocket stitched into the inside of her bag. Her business in the southern reaches of the Niben was far from over, and she cut through the cool, motionless humidity of autumn in the Blackwoods as she searched for the next marker on her map.

Twilight rose and fell as she moved through the forest of banyan and cypress knees, her boots squelching in the thick muck. With her invisibility to conceal her, she made for the campfire glow at Bogwater. If Teinaava were to have his way, she was about to add another body part to her meager collection, but little did her dear Brother know of the motives she held in secret.

Scar-Tail’s story had sat uncomfortably in her stomach ever since it left Teinaava’s lips. It’s not like she didn’t understand the Tenets herself. Loyalty to the covenant aside, Nim could not blame him for breaking free from the duties of an assassin. From what she knew of the Shadowscales, such a life had been ordained by the stars, and those born under the light of the Shadow would never have a choice in their occupation. Nim on the other hand…

Stepping carefully to avoid patches of soft, moist soil, Nim found her way to the foot of a bog willow and climbed into its branches. She peered through the hanging foliage in search of signs of movement from the camp. She saw Scar-Tail, or an Argonian who she assumed was Scar-Tail, limping out of the tent and resting on the ground before the burning fire. She sat there for some time, half an hour perhaps, waiting for some sign from the man, from the Gods, from the churning in her gut to tell her how to proceed. Before she came to a conclusion, the Argonian spoke for himself. He rolled over, looked directly at the crook of the tree in which she sat, and called out to her.

“_Ruheeva_,” he greeted her in his native Jel. “I’ve been expecting you, Assassin. Don’t try to deny that you’re here for my blood. If you’re looking for your missing agent, you will find his body around here somewhere.”

There was a patent twinge of pain in his hoarse voice, and Nim suspected he was suffering from serious wounds. She stiffened but remained hidden amidst the leaves and searched the forest floor with the aid of her Nighteye charm.

“Silence then? You must be Dark Brotherhood,” the man croaked. “None of the Royal Court’s agents could refuse the chance to rake my treachery over the coals at first sight. Teinaava must have sent you, right? Ocheeva was always too busy to be bothered with the affairs and missteps of others.”

Slowly, Nim slid her way down the tree, eyes fixed on Scar-Tail and his immobile form before the fire.

“Then come, _haj mota,_” he beckoned her, grim conviction in his tone. “Kill me. I won’t be much of a challenge in my current state. I’m as good as dead already.”

Nim stepped closer to the camp. In one hand, she readied a paralyze spell. In the other, her blade.

“I’ve not come to kill you,” she finally spoke. “If I approach, how do I know you won’t attack?”

Scar-Tail threw his blade across the campfire and looked her direction, waiting for her to appear through the shadows. She approached cautiously and Scar-Tail raised the ridges of his brow when she let her invisibility spell fall.

“It is true then. You are Dark Brotherhood through and through. I see it in your eyes.”

Nim felt her blood run cold and stood still as a rock.

“What- what does it look like?”

The Argonian laughed at the shock in her moon-brimmed eyes. “Like the Void itself, cold and lifeless. But you’re not here for flattery, _haj mota_. What then have you come for if not to claim my blood? Perhaps you seek an exchange, treasure and gold for my life? I have but little-”

“I don’t want your treasure,” Nim said, giving a firm shake. “I want to ask you something. You left the Shadowscales, why?”

He cocked his head, clearly taken by the question. “Hmm,” he murmured, “can one such as yourself understand?”

“Why wouldn’t I be able to?”

Scar-Tail laughed again, his voice bold and without shame. “Because you sought out this life of your own volition, to walk with darkness in the shadow of Sithis. You who gave up your soul to murder in the name of the Dread Father, what would you know of being made a slave whose sole purpose is to fulfill the malevolent wills of others?” Scar-Tail shifted to face her, groaned as the wound in his side stretched. “Teinaava told you of the Shadowscales, I assume.”

Nim nodded, and the Argonian continued.

“In Black Marsh, those born under the sign of the Shadow have our lives stolen at our very conception. We are destined to serve Sithis and the Kingdom of Argonia as harbingers of death. We accept this fate because we know of no life outside of it, but when our minds grow to the age of understanding, we learn that the reality is much darker. If you refuse, the alternative is execution.

Before I was called back to Black Marsh, I served Sithis and his Matron as an assassin of your ranks. During my service, I was allowed to live freely outside of fulfilling my contracts. I tasted a life that was not coated in the ferrous tang of blood and murder. For the first time, I heard song in the peace of mellow breeze. I found poetry in the smile of a fair woman, in spring and the birth of her leaves. I felt the sun pierce through the shade of Void, and I had the freedom to exist, not as a weapon, but as Scar-Tail the Saxhleel. Only then did I know what it meant to be truly alive.”

Scar-Tail stood slowly to his feet. He hobbled toward Nim but could only make it a few steps before he needed to lean himself against a nearby boulder. Masser’s beams caught in his eyes, a midnight blue, and she saw the defiant laughter in them. They were the eyes of a man who had lost the fear of death.

He motioned for her to come closer, held his hands up to show he posed no threat. Nim proceeded with aching languor and a hand clenched around the hilt of her blade.

“I have spent the past twenty-four years suffocating in the cold, damp burrows of destiny. I’d rather die than return to it. Do you know what it’s like to live all your life underground,” he said, his voice dark and heavy like a river opaque with sediment.

“Do you know what it’s like, to feel your soul being crushed within you? To know you will never be whole again? It’s an agony that no words can describe. To feel every strike of your blade against innocent life splintering you into fragments that you will never be able to piece together again.” Scar-Tail’s smile split his face revealing a row of shimmering teeth. “You don’t know. How could you? You are _Nisswo_. You chose this fate.”

Nim felt her insides coiling into taut loops and she squeezed her blade tighter in her fists to quiet the muscles in her body that were tempted to tremble.

“Tell me then,” he sang, the mocking grin stretched wide, “have my final breaths sated your curiosity?”

“I’ve not come to kill you,” Nim repeated with a whispered promise. They shared a somber silence, and each was filled with doubt at the others next movement. “You’re clearly wounded,” she said and gestured toward the blood soaking through his shirt. “Let me see the damage.”

She stepped forward, offering a hand, and Scar-Tail pulled backward. He hesitated for a moment as he scanned the subtle movements of her body for signs of a mounting attack. Seeing that she had ample opportunity to kill him already, he allowed her to move closer. Nim guided him to the ground and probed for the site of his trauma. She placed a gentle hand on his chest and let a wave of healing blue light envelope him.

“I don’t know you,” she said, watching as a new layer of dermis and scales grew over his cuts, “but I know that you’re suffering has been great. Take your chance at freedom.”

Scar-Tail held quiet as he lay with the moist dirt dampening his back. His eyes roamed her face as though taking in another stranger for the first time.

“Teinaava asked for proof of your death,” she continued.

“He will want my heart. It is the custom. There is a dead Argonian agent around this campsite. If you take it, Teinaava will not be able to tell the difference.”

She nodded. Grim understanding passed between them.

When the healing spell had completed its designed task, Nim leaned back on her knees and met Scar-tail with a blank stare. He sat up slowly, testing the recovery.

“I… have a stash of gold in a hollowed out rock over there.” He pointed to the boulder beside his tent. “You have shown me unexpected mercy. I ask that you take it with you. Please.”

“No, I’ve done nothing worthy of reward,” she replied and looked toward the fire. If one could die of shame, Nim felt she would. “I never planned to kill you. I never planned for my life to turn this way. You need to keep your money and run far away from here. Whatever sun you seek, I hope you find it.”

“You must be a talented assassin if Teinaava trusted you to take my life. Why then you act with sympathy, I do not understand.”

She met his burrowing stare and in the light of the campfire, his eyes burned like sapphire.

“I- I’m not a slave to the will of Sithis.”

“Hmm,” the Argonian hummed. “Perhaps not today. But tomorrow? When the next contract bears your name, you will accept it.”

Nim licked her salted lips. “I have another question,” she said with a dry swallow. “You managed to escape life as a Shadowscale. Can one… leave the Dark Brotherhood?”

“You can leave in a coffin made of pine if there is even so much left of you,” the Argonian laughed in derisive mocking. “But you mean willingly? Resignations are rarely accepted, _Beeko_. Once you pledge loyalty to Sithis your life is in the hands of your superiors. If your Speaker trusts you not to betray the secrets of the Family then I suppose it may be possible to retire, but your life will never truly be your own again. You will forever be watched, and if your Speaker were to call you back to duty you would still be bound by the Tenets to obey.”

“And if the Speaker were not so generous?”

Scar-Tail sighed.

“There is a rite known as the Dark Exile. It occurs when one breaks the Tenets and must face the Wrath of Sithis. The third transgression is known as the Eternal Exile from which there is no redemption. You will never be readmitted into the ranks.”

“So I could.. er, one would need to break the Tenets three times. That’s all?”

“_Xhuth_,” he exclaimed loudly and held a hand to his head. “It seems simple on paper but in practice it’s equal to signing your own death warrant! Look at where I am. My brothers and sisters will not rest until they believe me dead. Listen,_ Beeko_. Ask yourself if you would spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder.”

Nim bit her bottom lip. “Sometimes I feel I already live that way.”

“Perhaps I spoke to quickly when I first saw you, mistook the hollowness in your eyes for malice. Perhaps the emptiness staring back at me is more familiar than I presumed. Whatever you have experienced, I can promise that the darkest night has yet to fall.”

They sat together for some time, stagnant air and the song of the whippoorwill engulfing them. The fire leapt from the crackling wood, its arms reaching for her, twisting and dancing with the grace of a siren.

* * *

Translation for Scar-Tail’s Jel:

Ruheeva – a greeting used for strangers

Haj mota – hidden hunter

Nisswo – one who serves sithis/ priest of sithis

Beeko – friend

Xhuth – an interjection

Also, I love argonians.


	26. A Blood Stained To Do List - II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is, the return of the beautiful Telvanni wizard, Fathis Aren. For those of you who have read part 1, you may remember him. For everyone else that has made it this far, hopefully my wonderfully mediocre/amateur writing style has convinced you to check it out XD

**Chapter 26: A Blood Stained To Do List - part II**

Heading north along the Yellow Road, Nim trekked her way to Bravil in near darkness. It was Frostfall now and the blanket of night lifted the heat from the forests, leaving a cool, clammy humidity sticking to her skin. She arrived just after sunrise and made her way to Silverhome on the Water, ready to wreck her sleeping schedule once more. To her surprise, her weary body gave in to the soft curve of the mattress, and her mind darkened into unconsciousness, releasing all thought of the tasks at hand no matter how urgent or trifling.

It wasn’t unusual for Nim to have nightmares. In fact, she had grown quite accustomed to them since her days with Mephala’s coven. The things she had seen, the things she had done had not left her unmarked. As she drifted deeper into sleep, a dream materialized before her.

But for the first time that week, she did not dream of Bruma or Summitmist manor. Instead, she saw the wrought iron gates of the Arcane University. She passed through them, stepping right toward the Lustratorium gardens. They were in full bloom beneath a flaxen sun, dancing and waving their green limbs in the soft breeze.

Raminus sat there amongst the decorative Ayleid architecture. Nim approached as he called, but his voice was a gruff susurration that sounded wrong in his mouth, and when she drew closer he smelled of hickory smoke and pine needles. He reached for her, an unfamiliar hardness in his eyes, and when his hands found her they were not offering a gentle embrace that spoke of sympathy and understanding. They were abrasive, probing, compelled by the need to consume. He shook her hard, laughed at the cry ringing past her lips. He spoke again, and this time she recognized the voice in his throat.

_No one could ever love a miserable thing like you_, he said.

Nim awoke in cold sweat.

* * *

Fathis Aren was having a very unpleasant Morndas, which is to say he was having a very typical Morndas. As usual, he awoke bright and early to sneak in a few hours of reading before the day’s duties called him away. By midmorning he was interrupted by a gentle knocking on the door of his private quarters. He shuffled his way over to be met by one of the Count’s men and an incapacitated Gellius Terentius. The familiar scent of moon sugar emanated from the boy’s every pore, and Fathis sighed at the lost cause before him.

Count Regulus had entrusted him with the task of weaning his skooma-sucking son off the vile narcotic, and thus Fathis had been treating Gellius for the past two months with a series of tapered doses of the drug. Gradually, Fathis lowered the concentration of moon sugar in the administered potions until it was just enough to keep the withdrawals at bay. Now all that progress gone in one weekend’s worth of a skooma binge.

_Nobility without responsibility!_ _Such idleness would never stand in Morrowind, _Fathis sneered silently before reprimanding himself. After all, it was not Gellius’ fault that he was born to a useless clown of a father. It’s true what they say, the ash never settles far from the eye of the storm.

Fathis sighed again and motioned for the guard to leave the unconscious Gellius on the couch in his room while he began to prepare a detoxifying draught. At least the young lad had the good senses to pass out at the dining table before drinking himself into a fatal stupor. It saved everyone the hassle of another stomach pumping.

And so the Morndas routine as Bravil Court Wizard began. With Gellius returned back to his room, Fathis looked over his annotated to-do list with bitter resignation.

_-Recharge the Count’s battle raiment – who knew that the magical reserves of enchantments could be drained from nonuse?  
-Restock ingredients for the Count’s medication (impotence this time, not the venereal boils)  
-Meet with the guard Gaius Prentus about his latest observations regarding the strange door in the middle of the Niben Bay._

Fathis’ eyes lingered on the last task. Dro’Nahrahe, the castle steward, had requested the meeting with a pronounced sense of urgency. Apparently, deranged people had been emerging from the strange glowing gate that popped up east of Bravil. Count Regulus couldn’t be less bothered by the startling discovery, ensuring his staff that the safety of his citizens was well provided for given that the town was separated from the gate by a body of water and a wall. When Fathis had asked the Count if he wanted him to investigate further, Regulus gave the very unconcerned reply of, “_hmm, at your leisure_.”

May the Mad Queen bless Dro’Nahrahe. Bravil would absolutely fall apart without her.

“B’Vehk,” Fathis cursed under his breath as he folded the parchment and tucked it into his pocket, “to think I once could have held my own Tel, and now I’m treating skooma addictions and erectile dysfunction.”

At least one of his tasks would require some measure of academic rigor, and that was more than he could say about a typical Morndas.

* * *

After bathing and eating lunch, Nim wandered over to the Chapel of Mara. Its great spires stretched high above the city walls and into the clear sky, taller than any building in its vicinity. The ornate stone-work and stained glass looked so out place among the leaning buildings of molded, bloated wood. She sat in the back row of pews and her mind was silent as she listened to her old mentor Marz, the Argonian healer, once more describe her longing for Black Marsh. The poor woman gave up everything to serve Mara here in Bravil. What had Nim sacrificed?

“The altar is free now if you wish to pray,” Marz said, gesturing toward the front of the room as a couple rose from their knees, finished with prayer.

Nim approached the altar cautiously. She hung her head, feeling the weight of the Gods eyes on her, and dipped two fingers into the blessed water of the central basin. The water did not sizzle when it touched her skin. It did not burn her despite the wicked acts she had committed. She did not hear the wrath of the Gods and their thunderous reprimands echoing against the stone walls. Nim sighed, feeling relieved and slightly disappointed.

Now she made for Castle Bravil, hoping that Fathis was in town. She had purposefully left her letter vague, not knowing when she would manage to make it down to visit, but it was unlikely he would be expecting her so early in the week. In the County Hall, she found only the castle steward, a rather anxious looking Khajiit, reading through a stack of papers.

“Excuse me,” Nim called, “is Fathis Aren around?”

“Around?” Dro’Nahrahe looked up briefly from her work to eye the Bosmer. Deciding that the reports from Gaius Prentus were far more pressing than that Daedra-consorting Conjurer’s guests, she returned her focus to her papers. “Somewhere, yes.”

Nim sensed that continuing a conversation would only further stress the castle steward.

“May I wait for him?” she asked, and Dro’Nahrahe pointed toward a sitting area behind her.

Nim sat for several minutes twiddling her thumbs and checking the door for incoming Dunmer. After some time, she grew terribly tired of waiting around and decided she would just head up into Fathis’ private quarters and see if he was in. If he was, then blessed be! If he wasn’t, then she would have ample opportunity to ogle his belongings. Of course, she wouldn’t touch anything. He was her friend, and even though she was a thief and a murderer for hire, she still had her principles.

After a few tricky locks, Nim made her way into Fathis’ room and took a seat at his alchemy station while her eyes wandered the décor of his shelves. Eventually, she heard footsteps along the outside hallway, and Fathis emerged through the door with vexation written plainly across his face to find his quarters unlocked. Nim bolted from her seat and ran for him with the wind of Kynareth at her back.

Fathis, who was still probing curiously at the locks, heard the footsteps before he saw her. He stood stone-still and perplexed as a small Bosmer rushed up and threw herself against him.

“Hello,” he said, recognizing the familiar blur of copper hair and brown skin. He wrapped an arm around Nim. “Should I even ask how you got in here?”

“No.”

“You’re much earlier than I expected,” he smirked. “I always knew you were fonder of me than you let on.”

“You really have no idea how happy I am to see such a friendly face. Oh, I could smooch you, I’m so happy.”

“I certainly won’t object if you choose to do so.”

“Oh, there’s that devilish charm,” she said, patting him lightly on the cheek and returning the soles of her feet to the ground. She noted that he had grown a bit of a beard since she last saw him. “You’re right, I’m much earlier than I intended. I had business this way so I thought I would stop by.”

“Council?” he asked releasing the embrace.

“Personal. Are you free today? I didn’t mean to interrupt. I can come back later in the afternoon if you would prefer.”

“Free? I was just getting ready to drive myself up a wall with boredom. Come, I have a few things to attend to and could use another pair of hands. It’s a good thing you’re here to save me from the maws of tedium. After that we can spend the evening over a nice bottle of Morrowind’s finest.”

Nim’s face lit up with eager excitement. “Oh, have you brought me a bottle of mazte?”

“Mazte!” Fathis feigned an insulted grimace. “Do you think me so boorish to serve my guests that swill?” He clucked his tongue. “Muthsera, I thought you knew me better.”

Fathis led her back to the alchemical desk and placed a canvas sack beside the equipment. From it, he withdrew several vials and pouches of assorted ingredients he had purchased at the Mages Guild.

“What are you making?” she asked as she eyed the spread of alchemical apparatuses.

“The treatment for an ongoing condition. I’ve already distilled the imp gall and troll fat,” he said while moving the contents of his alembic to a retort. He pointed to a bottle of viscous blue liquid on the desk. “Would you kindly boil that until it loses the scent of sulfur?”

Nim held the bottle up the light, watching the unnatural shimmer of the fluid inside. She uncorked the bottle and wafted the fumes upward. “Daedra venin? What kind of condition is this?”

Fathis smirked. “Patient confidentiality. I’m afraid I can’t say more.”

“Hmm, daedra venin, imp gall, and troll fat,” she noted skeptically. “And what else?”

She looked to Fathis and found he was now slicing the skin off of a ginseng root. Nim’s eyes widened, recognizing the common brew used to treat impotence.

“Fathis, it’s not what I think it is! And here I was, fantasizing about a Telvanni wizard of the utmost virility and-”

“It’s not for me!” he cried out. “B’vehk, how old do you think I am? It’s for the Count. I’m plenty virile, thank you very much. If you wish to challenge that claim, you need only ask.”

Nim gave him a sideways look and chuckled. “Filthy ol’ fetcher,” she said and returned to the task at hand.

* * *

After an hour had passed and Fathis returned from delivering Count Regulus’ treatment, he led Nim through the secret passage leading to his tower outside the walls of Bravil. As they traversed the grotto, they caught each other up on both the mundane and intriguing aspects of life over the past few months since they had parted ways following the exorcism of the Benirus Manor curse. Nim described the rigor of her new training under Carahil, and Fathis explained all the ways he had learned one could hide moon sugar in their skin folds and bodily orifices.

Finally, they reached the stone fort with twilight spreading above them. As they climbed the steps, Nim noted that there was a pen of rats being guarded by a flame atronach in the courtyard. She made to ask Fathis about it, but he held up a finger with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“I will sate your curiosity soon enough,” he promised.

The pair ensconced themselves into cozy armchairs arranged before a small fireplace, and the crackling warmth drove away the nip building in the autumn air. Fathis opened a bottle of sujamma and poured out a glass for himself and Nim. She brought the cup to her nose, sniffing the potent brew before immediately wrinkling her face.

“Oh, don’t do that,” Fathis warned her playfully. "You'll never want to drink it if you smell it first."

Nim took a sip.

“Son of a guar!” She grimaced as the drink burned down her throat. “That’s a kick in the rump, that.”

Fathis laughed heartily and took a sip himself. It settled warmly in his stomach. “It’s all you asked for, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes, it’s just what I needed.” Nim quickly decided that this was a drink she could get used to, but it was also a drink she had absolutely no business becoming well acquainted with. “So,” she began again, clearing her throat. “You mentioned something about a peculiar ongoing in the Niben Bay. Care to elaborate?”

Fathis nodded eagerly.

“You made perfect timing, really. I met with the guard posted at the door earlier today.”

“The door? And what on Nirn do you mean by that?”

“A portal is perhaps more apt a description.”

Nim scrunched her face and held her drink close. “Portal? That doesn’t really make any more sense than a door.”

Fathis continued, tucking a lock of dark hair behind his ear and crossing one leg over the other. He had Nim’s rapt attention as he spoke.

“A few weeks ago, a strange door, portal, gateway, whatever you prefer to call it appeared on a small island in the Niben Bay just east of here. It _materialized_, seemingly out of nowhere. It’s the most peculiar sight, stone carved into the likeness of three heads and a glowing visage sitting right at the mouth. The Count and his guards are asking to keep any knowledge of it classified while we surveil. Count Regulus, or more precisely, Dro’Nahrahe is afraid it could pose a threat to the people of Bravil, and thus I’ve been asked to investigate.”

“So, you’ve seen it with your own eyes. And? What do you make of it? Is there reason to feel threatened?”

No one at the University had made any mention of this anomaly when she was there last. She raked her brain for anything reminiscent of the description Fathis gave her and came up empty handed.

“I can’t say I’ve been able to decipher much of its potential danger,” Fathis said in between sips. “Apparently few that enter have returned, but what’s stranger is the ones that return are raving lunatics. Mad out of their skin!”

Nim leaned further back in her chair and watched the grand gestures Fathis was making with his hands as he spoke.

“You should have heard the woman I met with last week. Oh, what did she say? She was convinced I couldn’t see her and neither could _he. The Skooma Cat_, she called him_._”

“Huh?” Nim quirked a very confused brow at the Dunmer. “The Skooma Cat as in... Sheogorath?”

Fathis shrugged. “That’s all she said.”

“Are you sure she wasn’t high on moon sugar herself. What’s that saying, ‘there’s nothing madder than a cat on skooma.’”

“Well yes and no. She was absolutely out of her skull, I do not doubt that, but she showed me this.”

Fathis walked to the opposite side of the room and retrieved a sack from the drawer of his cabinet. Untying the top, he opened it to reveal a fine powder of the brightest, most vivid shade of green she had ever seen. It was quite nearly luminescent in their dim surroundings.

“What is it?” Nim clenched her fingers, willing herself not to reach inside.

“I haven’t the faintest,” he replied. “But it’s highly addictive. I’ve been keeping rats to assess the toxicity of whatever strange flora came out of the gate. I fed this substance to several rats and monitored the effects while varying the amount ingested. They all experienced symptoms of severe withdrawal after as little as two doses.”

Fathis’ mind wandered briefly to thoughts of skooma and moon sugar. Whatever substance this was would be disastrous in the wrong hands. What a nightmare it would be for him if Gellius got his hands on it! He shuddered at the mere thought.

“And as I mentioned earlier,” he continued, “Today I met with the guard posted at the door, Gaius Prentus. He’s usually there to deter people from entering or exploring, but yesterday he was attacked by a man who returned through the portal. Gaius said the man was screaming about how he would be sent back into madness over his dead body. Poor soul. On his person we found more strange belongings. I had them sent here where I could study them without fear of harming anyone in the castle. Come, let me show you.”

Fathis stood and made for the mezzanine, ready to lead Nim to his private study. Feeling the chill as night ascended, Nim reached into her pack for another layer to wrap around her shivering shoulders.

“Let me get my cloak,” she called out to the Dunmer in the doorway. “One second.”

She tugged on the corner of the cloak, trying to pull it out from beneath all of her belongings, but the movement caused the Argonian agent’s heart to wriggle free and spill over the edge of her pack. It had become frozen with the aid of the frost salt preservative and tumbled to the floor, rolling out of its wrapping of cheese cloth as it travelled away from her. Fathis watched the thing roll toward him, the bright reds of his sclera fully visible as it advanced in his direction.

“is… that a heart?” His lunch moved awkwardly in his stomach.

“Yes,” Nim squeaked and scurried after the thing before it rolled any further. Fathis’ complexion paled to a sky blue. “Don’t worry, it was given to me willingly.”

“Oh,” he said, nodding his head as though that explanation made the scenario any less unnerving. “A romantic, huh? How can a modern man ever hope compete with a gesture like that?”

“I don’t think one can,” she admitted with a stiff grin and tucked the muscle away in the depths of her pack.

Sweeping the image of the past ten seconds away, Fathis and Nim ascended the steps to his study where an assortment of weapons, unfamiliar flora, and rocks of dark mineral vaguely reminiscent of metal ore lay spread out on a table.

“Have you ever seen a weapon crafted in such a motif?” Fathis asked, as he lifted the strange cudgel. It was very rudimentary in design; a rock club with a shaft made of bone and engraved with runes he did not recognize.

“Goblin maybe?”

Fathis shook his head. “Nothing from the Cyrodiliic bands. I’ve gone over this lettering more times than I care to admit and haven’t found a reference for this script anywhere.”

“Maybe it’s not a script,” Nim suggested and passed a finger over the etchings. “Maybe it’s just a design. And what of this?” Her attention drifted to the dark rocks. They were black as obsidian with a vein of shimmering green running through them. Perhaps it was only a play of the light, but Nim swore the veins seemed to be _moving_, shifting and flowing with an ethereal grace_._ She put the piece of ore down, feeling a sudden need to cleanse her hands with radiant light.

“A mystery as well,” Fathis said, holding his chin in his hands and stroking at his beard. “Not iron. Not ebony. Not orichalcum. I don’t know what else it could be.”

Nim’s eyes wandered to a pale blue fruit that was covered with irregular purple splotches. She prodded it with her little finger and felt its flesh give in to the light pressure.

“What is it? Is it edible?”

“Perhaps not the wisest move,” Fathis replied playfully. “But this is the only item on which I may have a hunch.” His expression brightened as the words left him and he walked toward the bookcase behind his desk, returning with a leather-bound tome. “Have you ever read _The Shivering Apothecary_ by Cinda Amatius?”

Nim shook her head and watched as Fathis flipped through the pages.

“It’s a catalogue of alchemical ingredients one can harvest in the flora and fauna of the Shivering Isles.”

“Sheogorath’s realm?” Nim asked incredulously. “The Madhouse?

Fathis nodded, the pleased smile still stretched on his lips.

“You think the door is a gate to Oblivion, to the Shivering Isles? That’s… kind of crazy talk, isn’t it?”

“Precisely,” Fathis said, and Nim looked at him with heightened skepticism in her knitted brows. “I mean to say, yes, I do indeed think this is a gate to the Shivering Isles.”

A gate to Oblivion.

Nim froze in place.

“Was this door made of marble?” she asked demurely, her face suddenly sullen.

A chuckle sounded from Fathis’ belly. “I had no idea you were also interested in Daedric architecture,” he laughed, and then cocked his head when he saw the seriousness that overcame her. “Um, perhaps it was. I-I don’t know actually.”

What had the Emperor said to her with his dying breath? _Close shut the marble jaws of Oblivion._

Could this be his prophecy? Could this be the destruction he spoke of?

Fathis set the book down on the table and took a cautious step closer to the Bosmer. “Are you alright, Nim? You’ve suddenly gone a bit wan.”

“Yes,” she assured him with a shake of her head, attempting also to shake herself from the reverie. “I just don’t understand why a gate to the Shivering Isles would open here and now.”

“Sheogorath is the Daedric Prince of Madness. What reason would he need? Additionally, with the death of Emperor Uriel Septim and his sons, the Dragonfires lie dormant.”

“And the barrier between Mundus and the planes of Oblivion are broken,” she murmured, her voice trailing off.

What else had the Emperor said to her that day? She had worked so hard to repress the memory of that night in the prison, and after two years, she was surprised at how effective a practice it had been. She squinted hard into the grout between the stone tiles of the fort walls as she forced herself to remember the night of her escape, her fear, Uriel Septim’s words, her inability to save him.

_The Prince awakens, _he had said.

_You must stand alone against the Prince of…_

_The Prince of…_

“Fathis, who is the Prince of Destruction?”

Fathis looked at her with heightened concern. “Mehrunes Dagon, why?” He looked back to the objects spread on his table. “Are you seeing something that I am not?”

“No, not at all. I was getting caught up in a tangential thought. I think your hunch is right.” Nim took a deep breath and pressed her hands to her eyes “It’s just… I think the sujamma’s kicking in.”

The Dunmer quirked a brow and released a tense laugh.

“Now that I’ve made my case and you’ve seen the evidence for yourself, I was hoping to make you a proposition. Come let’s return to the fire. The pallor on your face is worrying me.”

As they made their way back to the sitting area, Fathis dove into an alcove furnished as a bedroom and Nim proceeded to the fireplace. The memory of her last night in the prison throbbed against her skull. If this was truly a gate to the Shivering Isles, what other plane of Oblivion might open into this world? Perhaps it was time for her to see to the Emperor’s dying wishes and face that ghosts of her past. She was no longer the useless runt of years gone and she certainly didn’t need any more regrets haunting her.

Settling back into her seat, Nim decided she would address the matter later. She took another swig of sujamma to clear her mind while she waited for Fathis to return from wherever he had run off to. Staring into her goblet, she didn’t understand how he could sip such a potent drink so effortlessly. Suddenly, a heavy weight fell on her shoulders as Fathis draped a bear fur around her.

“For you, Muthsera,” he said with an exaggerated bow. “I’m getting cold just watching you shiver.”

Nim let the pelt engulf her and hid her smile behind the goblet in her hands. “Theatrics get you nowhere, Serjo.”

He released a round of chuckles and heard Nim join in as he took his own seat.

“Now, unto business,” he said, clearing his throat of errant laughter. “I am certain this is Daedric magic at play. Are you interested in investigating further?”

“You’re going to have to be a bit more specific than that. Are you asking that I help in your research?”

“In a way, yes. Should you take any of these artifacts to the Mystic Archives, I’m sure you will find yourself much better suited to identify them. The line of study I wish to pursue is a bit more…” He paused and pulled at the hairs of his chin, “aggressive.”

Nim squinted at the Dunmer. _More experiments, _she wondered. But the little rats were so cute!

“I’m listening,” she drawled with a healthy amount of skepticism.

Fathis smiled mischievously, a wildness about his crimson eyes.

“I want to enter this portal and understand why it’s here. I would be ever so grateful if you came with me.”

Nim stiffened in her seat, her eyes growing wide as she processed his words. Fathis watched intently as the expression on her face wavered between shock, guarded cynicism, and spirited curiosity. He waited eagerly for her to speak as he refilled his glass.

Nim felt her mouth fill with cotton. The man was a lunatic! What fool who valued his own life would willingly climb into Oblivion? The plan he had just proposed was an entirely new type of danger, the kind that could only be dreamt of by an eccentric scholar of the arcane.

To commune with Daedra posed its own endless list of hazards, but to enmesh oneself within their realm? Even the master Conjurer Morian Zenas, author of _On Oblivion_, become lost to its planes in his search for knowledge.

And to lose one’s self in the realm of Sheogorath no less!

Returning her expression to a neutral state, Nim cleared her throat and looked Fathis straight in the eyes.

“I need to understand why you would ask me of all people. And don’t say it’s because of my prowess in battle because all you’ve seen me fight are members of the undead. What if I walk in there and get myself killed at the by the claws of the nearest scamp?”

A grin tugged at the corner of the Dunmer’s mouth. “It’s not your fighting skills that would most useful in the realm of the Mad God. Do you forget that you told me of all the horrors you’ve experienced as a child? I can’t even begin to imagine the things you’ve failed to tell me. Yet, here you are, a functional mage with a strong head on your shoulders.”

Nim sipped her sujamma, suppressed her wince. “Where are you going with this?”

“Mortal dangers aside, you mentioned something else to me that evening.”

“It’s the Daedric worship, isn’t it?” she asked, eyes narrowed. Fathis nodded plainly. “You think I would be a beneficial companion because I’m a daughter of Mephala?”

“Yes and no.”

“That was years ago,” she sighed. “I told you, my time in the coven was very complicated. I don’t see how the lessons Mephala taught me would be helpful to investigating this anomaly in the Niben Bay. You said yourself that deception and subterfuge have no place in the livelihood of the honest man.”

“Ah, but it’s good then that you’ve never been an honest man,” he smirked and Nim glared daggers at the impish expression curling his face. “The curiosity and cunning that you have gleamed in your worship is, of course, useful, but it’s your mettle that I am referring to.”

“My metal? Like my gold? Fathis, with your purse you could buy a whole family of-”

“That’s not what I mean,” he chuckled. “Allow me to explain. Think about the art of Conjuration. It requires the use of a summoning incantation and a binding rune. The conjurer most devote sufficient energy to maintaining both of these at all times, thus it requires incredible focus and willpower to call forth a creature from the planes of Oblivion. Now think of those who commune with the Princes themselves. It requires great mental fortitude to consort with the Daedra and not become bent to their will. I would know, I am a master Conjurer after all.”

“And a marvelously humble one at that,” Nim quipped and raised her glass.

“As I was saying,” Fathis began again, pitching his voice. “It takes an immeasurable amount of strength to be touched by the Daedra, to learn their secrets, and not lose yourself to their command. The silk of Mephala’s web is no gossamer, Nim. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that. She believed you strong enough to accept you as a follower, and you’ve not been driven to mindless devotion despite the fact that you carry her teachings in your heart.”

“Alright, Fathis,” Nim said with a flippant wave of her hand. “We’re beyond flattery. I’ll hear no more of it.”

“All this to say, If I were to enter the Shivering Isles, I would like a companion that is intelligent, capable, and one who possesses a will of steel.”

“I mean, I’m no Hermaeus Mora,” Nim shrugged. “Also, I would say I’m more iron-willed than steel-willed. I am prone to corrosion, you know.”

Fathis raised a brow. “Are you telling me you aren’t interested?”

“What kind of s’wit do you take me for,” she teased and feigned an offended scowl. “Of course, I’m interested.”

Fathis placed a hand over his heart. “Praise the Almsivi,” he cheered. “I knew you would be up for it. Let us make plans to investigate it then. I may even be able to convince Count Regulus to provide compensation if I claim you are an assistant.”

As the Court Wizard continued on excitedly, Nim realized that he intended to leave for this journey as soon as possible. Her face darkened as she thought of her other responsibilities within the realm. A heavy weight settled in her stomach

“Hang on,” he stopped himself, seeing her fallen expression. “Whats the matter?”

Nim reached out and laid her hand on the back of his palm. “I would like nothing more than to go trapezing off into the unknown with you, truly. It’s what I live for as a scholar. It’s what I joined the Mage’s Guild hoping to do.”

“Then why do you look so broken hearted”

“It’s the guild, Fathis. It’s on the brink of ruin. I can almost taste the destruction imminent.”

“I bet Carahil would be fascinated by that specialty,” he joked. “She’s always been interested in understanding the workings of illusion magic on sensory manipulation.”

“I’m serious,” Nim said with resounding concern in her voice. “I really can’t go into detail, but it’s bad. The Council has been requesting my assistance lately, and it may not be wise of me to stray far from the University.”

A somber expression fell across the Dunmer’s brow. “I heard about Bruma. Is it related?

“You’ve read the paper, have you,” she replied sharply. “It’s good to hear you’ve finally decided to keep up with the times.”

Ignoring the pique in her voice, Fathis squeezed her hand in his. “Nim, I know you had friends there. I’m sorry.”

She sighed faintly and returned the gentle squeeze before pulling her arm back beneath the bear pelt.

“No, I apologize. I shouldn’t have been snippy with you. I was there, Fathis. I pulled J’skaar out of the fire. I’ve been handling it rather poorly ever since.”

“Is there anything I can do to help,” he offered.

She shook her head and gazed into the dark sujamma.

“I don’t even think the Council knows what to do. It’s not fair. As soon as I finish an assignment that no one else was willing to dirty their hands with, my opinion becomes the most worthless thing in the world. I’m not a mindless machine operating at the whims of the Council. I put in the effort. I sweat for it. I bleed for it. I’m trying to be better. It’s times like these I feel invisible without any of my illusion magic, and I wonder, why bother asserting myself into this world when I only reflect what others hope to see?”

Nim looked up to find Fathis frowning sympathetically.

“Gods,” she groaned, “listen to me ramble, all sulky and full of gloom. I’m sorry. I’m not looking for pity. I mean to say, I want to help you investigate this strange gate, but I must be certain the Council will not need me first.”

“I have plenty to research in the interim, Nim. It’s okay. I understand you have a responsibility to the guild. As long as no daedra come pouring out of the gate, I think we can hold off for a while longer.”

She released a relieved sigh. “You’re a true friend, Fathis Aren. I am grateful that you are willing to entertain rabble like me.”

“Muthsera, even if you were covered in a layer of muck and guar dung, you would still be a breath of fresh air in this sodden town. “

Nim threw her head back in laughter. “I told you. Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“Let’s not dwell on things out of our control then,” Fathis said cheerfully as he slapped his thigh, hoping to lighten the mood. “Let me play the role of a dear friend and gracious host. How shall I entertain you?”

“Tell me a story,” Nim requested with a small smile as she buried herself in the bear pelt. “Tell me of Morrowind and your grand escapades among the Telvanni. Tell me a story of heroism and roguish charm and how you swept all the unwitting maidens off their feet.”

“Ah, I have just that tale for you then,” he smirked with a palpable air of confidence as he refilled their cups with sujamma. “But first a toast. To wealth beyond measure, as we say in my homeland.”

Nim repeated after him. “Wealth beyond measure.”

They raised their glasses.


	27. A Blood Stained To Do List - III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly AU because I changed the dates of Greywyn’s journal and some DB related things.
> 
> Also present day is Frostfall 3E 435 to orient yourself within the timeline.

**Chapter 27: Blood Stained To Do List - part III**

Beneath the concealment of an invisibility spell, Nim trailed behind a guard and slipped out of the gates of the Imperial Prison and onto the dark stretch of bridge connecting the prison district to the rest of the city. She looked to her hands with a grimace, finding a very palpable memory of a cold stiff finger in her palm even now that it was sitting in Captain Civello’s desk. She sighed and made her way to the Market District. Sunrise was an hour or so away, and it would be wise for her to find breakfast before she embarked on the rest of the day’s duties. Some food would do her well. Some food and a basin in which to wash her hands.

A few hours later, she sat at a corner table in the Merchant’s Inn with the rising sun shining through the window against her back. She ate her breakfast slowly as she watched the shopkeepers trickle in and out before they opened up their own stores for the morning trade. When the bell tower struck half past seven, Nim decided it was time to get going about her own business. As she made for the exit, the door swung open to reveal Urjabhi, one of the three brothers who ran _The Black Horse Courier, _bounding in with an armful of newspapers. The Khajiit left them in the news stand near the front door, and as she reached for the door Nim glimpsed the front page:_ Adamus Phillida Slain!_

Morbid curiosity called out to her despite her better judgment. Tucking the paper under her arm, she purchased another coffee and took a seat at the bar as she read.

Another hour passed by. Nim sat engrossed in the daily news and it’s rather inaccurate description of the murder she had committed down in Leyawiin. The ambient shuffles of guests excitedly babbling through breakfast settled around her, and even with most of her attention focused on reading, she noted that the foot traffic moved much faster than what she would expect for a given weekday.

Nim motioned to the bustling diners with a nod of her head as she laid her septims on the bar counter. “What’s all the rush?” She asked the proprietor.

“The Butcher’s being challenged again,” he replied, sweeping the coins into his palm and tucking them away in his lock box. “The fight’s scheduled for nine sharp. Can’t watch a fight on an empty stomach.”

“So early in the morning?”

The proprietor nodded and returned to cleaning the counter. “That’s the earliest the arena opens. As the Butcher says, ‘what better way to start the day than with the blood of your enemies fresh on your blade?’”

“Huh. She says that, does she?” Nim pursed her lips and thought of Lorise uttering such phrase to a _Black Horse Courier _reporter on the arena floor. She could see it clearly. A coy smile that reached her calm azure eyes, her amber skin glittering with a fresh splatter of blood, her opponent dead at her feet.

Nim wasn’t sure what spirit compelled her to make her way toward the Arena following breakfast, but suddenly she found herself standing alongside the morning crowd before the colosseum arches. After paying her entry fee, she made her way to the viewing stands, briefly debating with herself whether or not it would be appropriate to place a bet on her own kin. Despite how common a form of entertainment the arena matches were for the people of Cyrodiil, Nim had never before watched a fight, and she shifted anxiously in her seat. A guttural roar sounded from the bleachers below her, the crowd’s attention focused on the gladiators who had just exited the bloodworks and now stood in waiting behind the iron gates of the arena floor.

Lorise stood tall with an effortless nonchalance as she waved her elven helm high above her head, greeting the morning audience. She wore the red raiment donned by only those with the title of _Grand Champion_, her shield strapped to her back and a sword held in the sheath secured to her waist. Her combatant across the field was an Imperial man. He jumped about before the gate, riling himself up for the imminent battle with his claymore at the ready.

An announcers booming voice reverberated through Nim’s body as it welcomed the crowd, and she looked around the stands to find the source of the magical augmentation that produced such a powerful acoustic amplification. Her attention was quickly directed back to the arena floor and she stiffened, eyes glued to the gates as they screeched and lowered beneath the ground. The combatants stepped into the ring and advanced swiftly, meeting in the center and circling around one another with a careful, calculating gaze shared between them. Lorise rushed first, her shield up and sword drawn back as she prepared her strike, but the man parried. She staggered backwards and regained her balance, the thick muscles of her legs keeping her firmly planted on the ground. She sidestepped the descending slash of his claymore and raised her shield to block it. The man slashed again, this time aiming lower and for her legs, but Lorise vaulted to the side. She caught him before he had the chance to pivot and face her and cut clean across his side, tearing a bloodied slit through his raiment from back to belly.

At the first drop of spilled blood, the crowd raised their fists into the air and cheered. The crazed excitement rang with a deafening intensity. Though she maintained her silence, Nim found herself just as mesmerized by the bloody scene below as those around her, unable to look away no matter how horrified she was for Lorise’s safety.

Down on the arena floor, Nim was watching something completely new to her eye. She had sparred unarmed with Lorise before and had an intimate knowledge of her brawn and speed from first-hand bruises and beatings, but the way the woman moved with a brandished blade was like a vortex of wind. She moved with a ferocious grace, each step full of measured purpose and balance. She moved with a strength hardened by both victory and failure, a resilience that refused to face the latter ever again.

Watching as the Imperial combatant continually adjusted his guard and stance as Lorise circled him, Nim soon realized that the arena was not truly about one’s efficiency in battle. It was a performance, and with each strike Lorise landed against her challenger, she came to understand that the woman dancing about the sand below could have ended the fight within the first few minutes. The arena was a stage, Lorise the ever-talented actress baiting her challenger into attacks that she deflected with ease as she moved about the ring.

She toyed with him for several minutes longer, slashing at his arms and wrists, weakening his grip on his claymore. She thrust one last time, her blade driving through his chest and at last, the battle was over. The man fell to his knees, eyes wide in the shock of pain as blood fell from his mouth onto the sand below him. Lorise drew her sword from his chest, raised the blade above her, and cleaved the man’s head clean from his shoulders.

The crowd roared and leapt to their feet with animalistic howls sounding from the depths of their bellies. The announcers voice bellowed into the stadium again, and Nim took the distraction to beat the crowd as she made for the exit. Gazing around as she squeezed past the roused spectators, she felt the thrill of danger slowly drain from her racing heart and wondered how the victory should make her feel. Needless bloodshed was becoming more and more of a daily occurrence in her life, and though she was a paid assassin, she had never paid money to watch someone die before.

Nim loitered about near the lotus pond moats as the colosseum emptied. Waving her feet above the water, she stared into her reflection and wondered how it was possible that she shared a single aliquot of blood with someone as deadly as the Grand Champion. When the crowd dispersed, Nim poked about near the betting stage in search of the entrance to the Bloodworks. A wooden door opened to her right, revealing the bookmaker, a middle-aged Bosmer man that she had bought her ticket from.

“And where do you think you’re going? Are you trying to enlist as a fighter?” he asked skeptically, eyeing Nim and her petite stature.

“I’m just going to see Lorise,” she said nonchalantly. “I know her.”

“Yeah,” the man scoffed. “You and that boy over there.”

The man pointed toward a young Bosmer boy with the most obscene hair style Nim had ever seen in her life. It was bright, sunflower blonde and styled in such a way that seemed to defy gravity. All the hair on his head was gathered into a spire that stuck straight up into the sky, adding several inches to his meager height. Nim found herself unable to tear her eyes away. It was even more unsightly than that feather-duster-hairdo on that Glarthir fellow from Skingrad.

Nim groaned. Eccentric Bosmeri men and their outrageous updos. It was eccentric creatures just like this made her ashamed of her own race. The small, pointy-haired boy was quaking in his loafers with an eerie smile stretched across his sunburnt features. His eyes were glued to the door of the Bloodworks as he bounced about in excitement, waiting to glimpse a famous gladiator with his own peepers. Either that or he was in desperate need to relieve himself.

Midway through her internal judgment, the door swung open again and a surprised Lorise, dressed in a very plain linen outfit, greeted Nim with a quizzical grin.

“Hey,” the woman said, her expression pleasantly surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to watch you spill blood,” Nim chirped.

Lorise beamed with such warmth it rivaled the sun’s very rays. “Sweeter words have never been spoken to me before. Did you place a bet? I hope you earned your money’s worth.”

Nim hesitated, rocking back on her heels. “I didn’t, but not out of any doubt I had of you winning.”

“Boo,” Lorise teased. “What are you doing in the city anyway?” She began and then paused, remembering the latest contract that Nim had received from Ocheeva. Her eyes widened with knowing excitement. “I see! All is well then, I assume?”

Nim nodded, hesitant again. “You think it’s safe to be seen in public together?”

“Oh, of course,” Lorise assured her. “You’re my niece after all.”

Hundolin, the Bosmer bookmaker who was eavesdropping as he collected the gold from the betting box gasped audibly when he heard of their shared heritage. Nim turned to catch him gawking and grinned smugly.

“Right,” she drawled, retuning her attention to the Grand Champion. “I’ve actually come to collect the journal since I knew I would be in the Imperial City. Honestly, I’m not quite certain what compelled me to come watch one of your matches.”

“I figure you’d come around to the allure of pointless bloodshed eventually.”

“Hmm,” she hummed, “I suppose I was curious. Not even in my wildest dreams have I imagined someone could move with such a deadly grace. You were right. Fighting is a form of art.”

Lorise beamed again, her eyes squinting into thin lines as the smile reached them. “Do you remember asking me why it is I don’t have many suitors?”

Nim nodded

“The beheading,” she proclaimed with a casual nod. “I think that might be why.”

“Speaking of,” she began and at the recollection of the fight’s gory end, Nim did her best to contain the grimace she felt tugging at her face, “I was wondering if that’s normal practice in the arena. It’s just… to spend all your life training to be a combatant only to get yourself hacked into little pieces. It’s more ghoulish than I thought it would be.”

“Ghoulish maybe, but it’s the entertainment that I provide,” Lorise shrugged unapologetically. “The people like that kind of vicarious thrill. Besides, they wouldn’t call me the Butcher if I left my opponents in one piece now would they?”

“Fair.” Nim had done her fair share of hacking and slashing when it came to downed necromancers and their worm thralls. Whatever pleasure could be gained from watching another perform the same act had been ruined by the phantom smells of mort flesh.

Lorise slung both straps of her pack onto her shoulders. She looked down at Nim expectantly. “Can I come retrieve the journal with you?” She asked meekly. “You said the archivist was in the city, right? I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that journal since we last spoke with Vicente. Maybe it will be able to tell me what happened with my sister.”

“Erm,” Nim mumbled, shifting uncomfortably, “the archivist is in the city. It’s just, you know how some of us live separate lives when we’re not um…. working? I would strongly prefer that rest of the family doesn’t find out what kind of socially acceptable circles I run in outside.”

“Oh, I must have forgot that you came to see me at my day job,” Lorise chortled, and Nim flushed with embarrassment as she shook her head. “If you’d rather I not-“

“No, I don’t mean to say I don’t trust you,” she quickly corrected. “I’m a mage at the Arcane University. That’s why I know an archivist that could repair the journal.”

Lorise looked down at Nim with raised brows. She had heard a rumor or two about the Arcane University and the secrets walled within it. She had heard stories of the great feats of magic that a fully-fledged Wizard of the University could accomplish, stories of healers so powerful they could stitch an eye back into your skull and make you see again, stories of mages who could raise hordes of the undead to wreak havoc on their own bidding. Or maybe those were stories of necromancy, and Lorise could have sworn that she read such a practice had been banned.

Regardless, it was said that the mages who advanced to the highest ranks of the guild were recognized as experts in their field all across Tamriel, and Lorise wondered just what kind of esoteric knowledge the small elf before her had come to possess. Everyone knew that the arcanum had a highly rigorous admission process for those who did not come from an established name or money, and she knew Nim came from neither. 

“Well then, I won’t tell anyone what you do in your spare time if you won’t tell about my double life,” Lorise winked

“But everyone already knows about-“

Lorise sighed. “That was a joke, Nim,” she gibed. “Of course I won’t tell.”

Nim blushed again at her own folly. “Alright, let’s head over.”

The pair began walking toward the Arboretum when Nim noticed the tiny Bosmer boy had begun to trail behind them. He moved quietly, darting about behind pillars and the corners of buildings as though attempting to maintain secrecy

“Say, what is with that boy over there watching you?” Nim asked, gesturing with a nod of her head.

“Him? Ugh, the devoted fool,” Lorise groaned. “I’ve met cliffracers that were less annoying. Keep walking. You simply cannot make eye contact with him. He thinks himself a squire or something. Ever since I became Grand Champion he spends his days following me around.”

Nim did as was suggested and turned back around though she watched him in her periphery. The boy seemed to be trembling in admiration as he watched. She decided that he must be on some stimulant, likely skooma, to keep up that level of energy. Even after they left the arena district, she could still hear his shrieking in her head:

_By Azura, by Azura, by Azura!_

* * *

“You’re awfully shifty eyed,” Lorise whispered as they walked through the Arch-mage’s lobby. Nim’s eyes darted across the scenery, searching anxiously for what, Lorise had no idea. “You’re not even this skittish in the Sanctuary.”

“I’m just… keeping them peeled.”

“For what?” Nim seemed to be focusing on a dark-haired man in a set of blue robes who stood a few feet from them with his back turned. As they passed, Nim glimpsed his profile and released a sigh of palpable relief. Lorise looked down at the nervous Bosmer with a mischievous smirk spreading on her face. “Or for whom, may be the better question,” the woman added.

Bothiel had been all but too excited to provide a visitation pass for the arena Grand Champion herself and playfully berated Nim for never having mentioned they were related before. After tearing Lorise free from Bothiel and her thousand questions, Nim guided her guest along the marble walkway toward the University archives. Hushed murmurs of recognition broke out amongst the students and mages as they strolled past. No doubt the gossip would spread like wildfire over the week. Nim tried shrug it off, but oh how she loathed hearing her name passed through the whispers of her fellow colleagues. The only thing she had hoped to be recognized for was her scholastic merit, and already she had rumors of affairs with Court Wizards and favoritism from the Council under her belt. Nim grumbled silently to herself, but she supposed that being acquainted with one of the world’s deadliest women was not the worst thing to be known for.

Lorise, on the other hand, was more than enjoying herself as she took in the sights around her. She had never spent much time around mages, a few spell-swords sure, but no intellectuals and certainly not any academics. A part of her wondered if she could have made it in the world of the arcane had she received a proper education. She didn’t have much for brains and honestly wasn’t one for books either, but she had heard a rumor from Owyn, the Arena Blademaster, that most of the battlemages he had met didn’t have much going on for them upstairs beside an inflated ego.

As they passed by the gardens and the outdoor lecture amphitheater, Nim had to physically drag Lorise away from the ongoing lesson on Ayleid runes. The woman’s freelance gawking was not only distracting to the students, but Irlav Jarol was now shooting daggers at Nim from behind the podium, and Stendarr knew she certainly didn’t need another reason to anger him any further.

“I can’t believe you’ve kept this a secret from me all these months,” Lorise exclaimed, eyes wide in awe as she continued to watch the lecture over her shoulder. Although she had no understanding of even the most basic principles of magic use, she sure loved fighting against mages. The anticipation of which spell would be thrown at her, the dodging, the rolling, the smell of singed hair! She made a mental note to speak to Owyn upon her return about the possibility of advertising for more battlemage-trained combatants. “You should teach me some magic,” she suggested with an eager nod.

“Me?” Nim snorted. “Lorise you could hire the best battlemage in the world to teach you.”

“But I don’t want the best battle mage. I want to learn from you. I want to know more about you and what your passions are,” she replied sincerely, and Nim felt a strange warmth blooming in her chest. “How about just a simple spell that makes me shoot fireworks into the sky once I win.”

Nim chuckled. “And what shall you have it spell out, ‘_I shall feast on your soul’_ in red flames?”

Lorise gasped, full of excitment. “You can do that?”

Arriving at the Mystic Archives, Nim retrieved the journal from Bodreri Farano after another round of introductions, and Nim made sure to keep the conversation truncated lest she let slip that Boderi was a retired battlemage herself. Lorise would all the time in the world to discuss their feats in battle after they picked through this sodden journal. Together, they made for a quiet reading nook among the second-floor stacks.

“Here we are,” Nim whispered. “Where do we start?”

“The beginning, I suppose.”

Despite some smudged ink, the journal was largely legible. The first entry was dated Turdas 18th Rain’s Hand 3E 391 and the last, Sundas 25th Evening Star 3E 428. They read for what seemed like hours and hours but in reality could have only been one at the most. Greywyn had been documenting his dreams from Sithis and the rise of the Crimson Scars for over four decades. The entries were brief, succinct and with frequent gaps of several years between them. Dogearing a select few passages that contained pertinent details, together the two Bosmers pieced together the only paper trail left of their family’s past.

_Turdas 18th Rain’s Hand 3E 391  
The esteemed Speaker Vicente Valtieri visited our Sanctuary today. To my dismay, he did not seem receptive to my suggestions. A true shame. I would have thought one of the undead ranks could see the glory in the echoes of darkness that Sithis sings into my soul. I should proceed with caution. How it would have helped to have the support of a Speaker on our side…_

_Loredas 23rd Rain’s Hand 3E 391  
Vero agreed that we are in need of our own Sanctuary. He has suggested we establish ourselves in an abandoned fort at the mouth of the Topal Bay, Deepscorn Hollow he calls it from his days as a mercenary sellsword.  
Rowley Eardwulf has agreed to join us. He knows where we can procure furnishings and tools to repair the lair. In one week’s time, we shall venture south and claim our new sanctuary. Sithis guide us._

_Tirdas 13th Midyear 3E 405  
We are betrayed! That cur, Silarian, has made true our plans to the Fingers, and we have been discovered! I have escaped the purification, but only with the good graces of Sithis who has sent Vero as my savior. My life will be forever in his debt, but now the Scars are hunted day and night by the Brotherhood!  
We continue riding to the lair. Sithis willing, it shall be the new sanctuary of the Crimson Scars._

_Loredas 19th Frostfall 3E 412  
Vero has written to me from his homestead in Valenwood, said he fears the Dark Brotherhood is aware that we live even after the purification. Should something happen to him, he asks that I watch over his wife and their two daughters. What life could I give them that has not already been tainted by this madness? But yet I owe Vero everything. I must remember my loyalties._

_Middas 17th Sun’s Height 3E 421  
All along, I was mistaken. All along, I was the blight upon Sithis and his dark name. Tonight, he spoke to me and again, and I learned of his displeasure. Again, I heard no words, but I knew the meaning. I was meant to take blood, to spill blood... but never to taste blood. My sanguine ways have offended my lord! I must cleanse myself of this filth. I must find a way!_

_Fredas 29th Sun’s height 3E 421  
Hail Sithis! I have bathed in the Purgeblood Salts and now, Dark ruler, I am your only true disciple. I feel my body weakening to its frail, mortal state, and I fear that I have little time left in this world, perhaps not enough to see to the promises I made to Vero. Now all that is left is to find what remains of his children. To them I leave our only inheritance, the lair itself._

_Sundas 25th Evening Star 3E 428  
I write now on a carriage carrying me home from Morrowind. So many years have I spent searching to honor Vero’s memory. For his eldest, I fear the worst. No trail to follow. No sign of hope. For his youngest, I have found a bill of sale. Whatever horrors she has faced, however, are now behind her. She goes by a new name now, no longer Callista Audenius. When I found her in Ald’ruhn she was living as the Nerevarine herself! By the time I return to Cyrodiil, she will already be sailing for Akavir, and she has left me with one last task. Find her daughter, Nimileth, a girl of thirteen years in the orphanage in Kvatch.  
I dare not speak it, but my condition worsens each day. Should I find myself unable to continue on this journey, I must make a visit to the Wawnet Inn and beg Rowley to see this duty to its end. For Vero’s sake.  
May Sithis give me strength. _

Lorise closed the journal and laid her hand atop the leather cover. “Were you thirteen in the year 428?” she asked.

Nim nodded. “I spent the first nine years of my life in Kvatch. The orphanage was the first home I can remember.”

“Then it’s true, you are my sister’s daughter. The Nerevarine, by the Gods.” Her eyes grew distant as she allowed the reality to settle, then shook her head firmly. “I can hardly wrap my head around it. How? The things she must have faced all on her own. After I became Grand Champion I thought for certain I would have all the resources to track her down. That's why I came to Cyrodiil in the first place, because I heard she was here. If she’s in Akavir... well, no wonder I couldn’t find her even when I had money.”

Lorise’s expression grew contrite and apologetic. She looked toward the small elf sitting across from her and sighed. “You read the journal entry, what Greywyn said about the bill of sale. When Callista and I were separated, we had been captured by slavers. If she fell pregnant, I imagine she was forced to abandon her child. Nim, If she had the choice to keep you, I’m sure she-“

Nim cut her off swiftly. “Like you said about your father, what’s done is done. It’s not important now. I just wanted to know what happened. I don’t need to know why.”

A moment of solemn silence stiffened in the air before Nim broke it.

“If she is truly the Nerevarine then I have big boots to fill, don’t I,” she joked weakly. Lorise offered a crooked grin.

“The world is slowly being torn asunder. If you want to be a hero, I’m sure you’ll find your own time to shine.”

“Say, I wonder why Greywyn wasn’t able to find you,” Nim mused. “I wonder why he thought you dead.”

“I only rose to fame about three years ago due to my success in the Arena,” Lorise admitted with a shrug. “Before then, I was nobody, just another nameless mercenary who went wherever my work took me. I was always on the move, always changing my alias. I suppose it’s not all that surprising.”

“This Rowley Eardwulf, do you suppose he’s still at the Wawnet Inn?”

Lorise shrugged again. “Seven years is a long time for some people to sit still. What else could he possibly tell you?”

“You’re right,” Nim said looking down at the table. “What else would I need to know?”

They sat quietly for a spell, the near imperceptible flicker of the hanging brazier whispering above them.

“Shall we leave?” she asked after some time.

Lorise nodded but before Nim could stand, she spoke again and looked thoughtfully at her niece.

“You know what this means, right,” she said.

Nim shook her head. “What?”

“It means now we’re all that is left of our family, and now we will never have to be alone again.” Lorise contemplated the cover of the journal and returned her eyes to the small Bosmer across from her. “Look, I remember what it was like when my family was still together. It can be a beautiful thing. I know you haven’t found that with the Brotherhood, but I hope that one day you can come to trust me.”

Nim smiled appreciatively and felt a familiar glow well inside her it. It was the glow that accompanied her most treasured memories. Those of the days spent learning from the members of her coven, summer evenings nestled beside J’rasha, and stumbling, drunken nights on the Waterfront with Methredhel and Amusei.

“Lorise, I think I know what family is,” she confessed, “the kind that isn’t bound by blood or the name you were born to. I’m grateful that we’ve found each other, please don’t mistake me. There’s just so much you don’t know about me. There’s so much I don’t know about you.”

“I understand I’m some strange murderous woman to you, but we all have our secrets. We have the rest of our lives to become familiar. I just want you to know how I feel.” Lorise reached out her hand and squeezed Nim’s wrist gently. There was an earnest warmth in her otherwise cool teal eyes. “I wasn’t able to protect my little sister, and I’ll never forgive myself for it. Fate has brought us together, Nim, don’t you see? I’ve been around too long to believe that things like this occur by chance. No matter what happens in this world, if the sky starts pouring fire and Nirn opens up to swallow us whole, you have someone to stand beside you. After my parents and my sister were taken away from me, I never thought I would feel the love and comfort of family until I met Vicente. And now we’ve found one another.”

Nim felt pressure building behind her eyes and quickly forced it back. She fiddled with the chain of her amulet for a second, before placing her free hand atop Lorise’s.

“Thank you,” she replied, working harder than she appeared to keep her voice from cracking. “I do feel cared for. It’s all a bit jarring, you know. To go from knowing nothing about where you come from to finding out your mother is the Nerevarine and your aunt is the Grand Champion. I too will stand by you through whatever darkness comes, I promise you that.” She took a deep breath, her expression shifting to a lighter smile. “And while, I appreciate the sentiment, truly, please let’s not get all maternal. I’m a legal adult, and though I am not at all doubting that you are capable of a nurturing side, I watched you decapitate a man today.”

Lorise grinned, showing many teeth as she stifled laughter. “I’m not trying to be your mother,” she began. “I know you have a life of your own and a history that I will never share with you, but I’d really like it if we were present in each other’s lives. We need to look out for each another. Nothing can come between me and your safety.”

“Well, good thing we’re employed in such harmless occupations,” Nim snorted and the two women chuckled at the gruesome reality of their association. Regaining her composure, Lorise leaned back in her chair, met Nim’s eye and sighed.

“Speaking of our occupation, I don’t suppose you’ve heard the latest news?” she questioned, biting her lower lip.

“Of what?”

Lorise glanced around the empty room. “Is it safe to talk here?” Nim shrugged and the older woman leaned in closer, lowering her voice to a faint whisper. “Another brother lies dead. Vicente told me before I left for my match. He’s worried about the state of the guild and the allegiances of its members.”

“He’s worried about a traitor,” Nim wondered aloud.

She nodded grimly.

“And who is the… fallen brother?” Nim asked softly.

“Banus Alor, the Speaker from Black Marsh. Vicente seems convinced that there is a renegade among us.”

“A Speaker,” Nim whispered, her eyes wide with shock. “It’s true then. Mathieu had mentioned rumors of a traitor at the party. I thought it was just his morbid sense of humor.”

“Well, he would know, being one of the Hand after all. The killings began before I joined, but if Vicente thinks that it’s someone on the inside, I believe him. He’s been around longer than anyone, even Arquen.”

“What makes him think so?”

“The way that they were killed,” she began to explain, “the way their body was mangled. Apparently there is a pattern to it that connects our fallen brethren. Nim, they were-”

Suddenly the door behind them creaked open, and a handful of students poked their heads through. They gawped openly and unapologetically at the sight of the Grand Champion sitting in their library. Hushed whispers break out amongst the small gathering.

“It’s true. She is here,” a small voice whispered.

Nim eyed the crowd with mild annoyance, but evidently not enough to deter a young mage from approaching.

“Excuse me,” the Breton girl squeaked, sidling up to the nook in which they sat.

Lorise looked over her shoulder and smiled. “Hello. I’m Nimileth’s aunt.”

Nim slapped her palm flat against her forehead. Now everyone and their bloody conjured scamp would hear the news that Nimileth and the arena Grand Champion were related. How the gossip mills would gobble it up and spin it into the wildest stories. She could her the rumors in her head now.

_Nimileth and the Grand Champion are related, have you heard? _

_Who? _

_Nimileth, Traven’s pet Wizard. _

_Ah, you don’t suppose that’s how she rose in rank so swiftly? A woman as powerful and wealthy as Lorise Audenius must have some influence._

_Who knows? I wouldn’t be surprised if it was. Have you seen her conjuration? I once saw her summon a clanfear with no legs…. _

Nim shuddered. Somehow it was even worse than the rumors of her alleged affair with Fathis.

“I- I saw your fight against the Gray Prince,” a young Imperial Apprentice stammered out from the back. “I was wondering, could I have your autograph?”

A chorus of excited requests bleated out from the students, and Nim leaned back in her chair and gestured for Lorise to attend to her star-struck fans.

* * *

Raminus sat at the desk in his private quarters. He held a quill in one hand and a fistful of restless anxieties in the other. He reread the letter he had just written to Nimileth, rested his quill in the inkwell, proceeded to ball up the parchment, and swept it to the floor. The crumpled note joined its fallen brethren in an overflowing wastebasket of twenty-seven discarded drafts.

"You spineless sload," he groaned and tousled his dark hair. Why was this so difficult? It’s not like he had zero experience with women. He grew up listening to the romantic woes of his two older sisters, and he had been married once for Talos’ sake!

He thought briefly to his time with Lyra. Strange how adolescent romance doesn’t always translate into a prosperous marriage. Last he heard, Lyra returned to her maiden name and was living up in Bruma on her parent’s dime. Had he known then what he did know, it would have saved him a good four years of futile arguments, shattered alchemy equipment, and a couple of books thrown at his head.

_Those books_, he thought mournfully, those books he would never get back.

In their years together, Lyra had never expressed any interest in his academic pursuits, but oh had she _insisted_ that marriage granted her the right to half his possessions including his own personal library. That had been the worst part of the divorce. Lyra sure knew how to break a man. Raminus shook his head, recalling the heart ache he felt at the memory of his ex-wife tearing out the pages of his first edition copy of _Feyfolken._

_Barbaric_, he thought_, absolutely barbaric! _At least she hadn’t discovered his mineral collection. The fights that would have surrounded his love of metamorphic rock would have been many times more painful.

Raminus looked back to the pile of balled up parchment sitting on the floor of his quarters. Considering the union between him and his wife began to dissolve not even a year after their wedding, perhaps he was less experienced with women than he once thought himself.

With a defeated sigh, Raminus decided that a bit of fresh air would do well to clear his mind before he so much as thought of his next draft. Walking only a few steps outside of the living quarters building, he found a most unusual sight. The campus was up in a buzz of excitement, and down at the door to the Mystic Archives was a circle of students babbling incoherently amongst themselves. For a fleeting second he thought it might be a duel or a fist-fight at the very least. Ah, how he remembered his golden years as a University student. Such a shame that Traven had banned those too.

Curious, Raminus made his way over to the gathering and poked about. Though unable to see what or who lie in the center of the circle, he did spot a tiny rust-haired Bosmer making her best attempt to squeeze out of the tight crowd. Suddenly, he felt his legs carry him in her direction. Why? Why was he walking toward her when he couldn’t even figure out a coherent thought to say to her on paper? But still, his legs carried him forward.

* * *

"Nimileth?"

She froze.

That was Raminus' voice. Undeniably, Raminus' voice.

Nim blanched for a panicked second, and then proceeded to walk swiftly back into the crowd, squeezing between the excited mages who were quite effective at elbowing her out of the way.

“Nim, I can see you.”

“_Shit_,” she muttered quietly before turning around to greet the approaching mage. She offered a weak smile. “Hello.”

“Hi,” Raminus replied. An uncomfortable second of silence passed between them. “Um, what’s going on?”

“Nothing. I’m not doing anything.”

Raminus quirked a brow. “I meant the crowd behind but... never mind." He cleared his throat and looked to her, opened his mouth to speak then closed it.

"Yes?" She asked him,

He shifted, a little awkwardly. "I was actually hoping to speak with you. I didn't know when we'd see each other again, but since you're here—”

Nim gasped softly. “Does the Council need me?” she asked, a heightened alarm in her voice. She looked up at Raminus anxiously. “What’s happened?”

“No, no,” he insisted, waving his hands in front of him. “Nothing of that sort. I just- Nim, can we talk?

Her heart plummeted into the depths of her gut. The blood in her legs turning electric.

_No! Say no_! her mind screamed

“Certainly,” her mouth said.

“Of course, I understand if you have other duties you must see to.”

_Good! Say you’re busy!_ But her lips moved without her willing them and her voice rang clear into the air on its own accord.

“I always have time for you, Master Wizard.”

Raminus looked surprised, as though doubting the sincerity of her tone, which made sense because she could feel her eyes darting wildly around him in desperate search for the nearest escape. 

"Ah, that’s um… good,” he muttered. He looked behind her at the gathering of students and scratched at the nape of his neck. “Well, maybe we could speak somewhere quieter.”

Nim looked over her shoulder at the bubbling crowd surrounding Lorise. She couldn’t bear the idea of being alone with Raminus after what happened last time. Certainly, he was here to talk to her about it. What kind of scolding would it be? A rap on the knuckles, a firm berating and harsh glower? A… suspension?

“I don’t mind it,” she insisted. “I’ll speak loudly.”

“Ah, yes,” he muttered again, “but I’m not sure I want to.”

_It must be serious_, she thought with rising panic._ I am being scolded, aren’t I? Is he taking me before the Council?_

“Do we need to go see the Council?” she asked.

“The Council? No, it’s only the two of us. Please, let’s take a walk.”

Nim followed after him, and they walked toward the Lustratorium gardens until the chatter of the crowd was but muffled din. _He’s going to reprimand me. He’s going to suspend me for misconduct._

“I um,” Raminus chuckled, swallowing nervously. “Oh, how do I even begin?”

_He’s stalling. Searching for the right words by which to admonish me._

“Nim, we’ve all been under a lot of pressure lately…”

_He’s trying to make this less embarrassing for me._

“…understandable how such tragedies lead to rash actions….”

_He’s rejecting me again._

“…just haven’t been able to stop thinking about…”

_Oh, it’s definitely suspension for misconduct._

“…and what happened in the Council chambers…”

_No, it’s worse than misconduct. Harassment, maybe?_

“…no easy way to put it into words. I tried writing a letter—”

“Raminus, I can’t take this,” Nim cried out, her body nearly trembling with anticipation. “Just tell me I’m suspended for harassment already." 

Raminus’ eyes grew large and bewildered. “Harassment?” he questioned. “Why would you think that?”

“Because of what I did!” she cried out again and ran her hands through her hair until it was a wild mess of static flyaways. She met the confusion in his eyes with burning embarrassment, and felt her face grow unbearably hot. “In the council room. I know that I harassed you. I’ve been badgering you for months now! I know it was wrong of me. I know!”

Raminus stared at her as though she were a startled cat. He raised his hands and they reached for her briefly before pulling back, unsure of whether or not to comfort her or prepare to flee.

“Nim, I’m trying to tell you that…” Her eyes snapped to him and he froze, mouth growing dry and his ability to speak coherent Cyrodiliic evaporating faster than dew in the Alik’r desert. “I’m trying to say that the feeling is mutual.”

_Oh It’s so much worse than I thought!_

“Great, you agree,” Nim croaked out. Her voice took on a dull edge, and her shoulders drooped as she let out a loud breath.“You could have just admitted it in the beginning. I harassed you. You agree with me. The feeling is mutual, blah blah blah. I understand. I’ll leave you alone." She looked up to him earnestly, eyes wide and watery. "I promise you this time. Raminus, _I promise you._ Tell me my punishment, please. Am I suspended?”

Raminus held his face in stunned awe, unflinching as though made of stone. He stared for a long time.

“That’s not at all what I meant,” he finally said. He took her hand in his and traced the silver band on her middle finger. “Nim I – do you remember the day I gave you this ring?” She met him with a defeated sigh.

“Of course I remember it. Raminus, are you just playing with me? What is going on right now? I’m terribly confused.”

“I think about that day a lot,” he said. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and continued on, “about what might have happened between us if I had been honest with you.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, and her voice squeaked like a trapped mouse. She wore a look of complete resignation as though nothing he could say would prevent her heart from shattering. 

“What I didn’t tell you that afternoon is that every day I wonder what you’re doing out there, away from me. If you’re well-fed, if your sleeping enough, if your safe. Every day, I think about how fast you moved to Anvil, and I regret not convincing you to stay longer. But the thing is, Nim, I wish that you had stayed at the University for selfish reasons. I wish you had stayed because I miss listening to you talk about the Orrery and all manners of Dwemer contraptions. I miss drinking tea with you in the lobby. I miss the early mornings before class when I’d find you carefree and bright-eyed while you sang to the ferns and the primrose in the Lustratorium.

“I didn’t tell you that every time the Council looks to our mages for aid, I offer forth your name because I know you are the best suited for the assignment, and I know you will do what is right, but it kills me, Nimileth. It kills me because the only thing I want is for you to be safe and to live the life of a young student with the world at her feet. It kills me because you shouldn’t be out there risking your life in this fight against Mannimarco. You should be taking classes and learning how to be the greatest illusionist that the University has ever seen. You should be singing to the ferns and the primrose here in the garden."

Raminus paused, worrying at his dry lips and Nim's stomach felt like it was made of a thousand dwemer cogs, all turning and grinding and grating against her insides. If this pause lasted any longer, she was certain she would vomit at his feet.

“I miss you, Nim," he said, nearly a whisper as he drew closer. She stepped closer too and stared up, bathed in the summer green of his eyes. "I miss talking to you, seeing you, being in your presence. I wish we could go back to before this trouble with the necromancers stole all of the time and freedom for you to chase your own ambitions. And what happened in the council room, it’s been consuming me, Nimileth. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Nim opened her mouth to respond, but only silence overtook them. She realized that she was squeezing his hand so hard that his fingers had turned bright red and she loosened her grip.

“In the council room,” she finally squeaked out. “I didn’t mean to harass you.”

“Stop saying that word,” Raminus pleaded squeezing her hand in his and giving it a firm shake. “I thought it was quite obvious that I was reciprocating.”

“But I thought I was making it all up in my head,” she murmured. “I thought I was—“

“You weren’t.”

Raminus drew her hand to his chest and leaned down, but just as she lifted herself to meet him, a familiar voice broke against her ear. Startled by the interruption, Raminus jumped aside, nearly dragging Nim a foot away by the hand he was still squeezing in his own.

“Ah, there you are!" Lorise's cried out. "That Boderi Farano sure has a colorful history! Wow, what I wouldn’t give to clash steel with her. I haven’t fought a battlemage in ages!” Lorise paused in her tracks upon seeing a rather flushed mage holding hands with Nim as she rounded the corner. “Oh, hello,” she said. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

In a second, Raminus had dropped Nim’s hand and returned his own to his pockets where he stood fiddling like a mudcrab trying to tie a pair of bootlaces. Nim looked as though her eyes were about to pop out of her skull. Although her heart still raced like fire, she looked to Raminus and knew the moment they had shared was now over.

“Oh, no interruption at all,” She called out quickly and beckoned the older Bosmer forward. Lorise approached cautiously and sidled up to Nim’s side, her gaze bouncing back and forth between the two mages. “Raminus, this is—“

“I’m Nim’s aunt,” Lorise interrupted with a boastful smile, extending her hand forward. Raminus accepted it with unprecedented eagerness. “Nim was… showing me the grounds today. A pleasure to meet you.”

“Lorise, this is Master Wizard Raminus Polus. He’s a member of the Council.”

“The Council, you say! I had no idea Nim had friends in such high places.”

“You… you’re Lorise Audenius, the Grand Champion,” Raminus exclaimed, making no attempt to hide his surprise.

“I am,” she beamed as though this were the first time in all her life that she had ever been recognized.

“I had no idea the two of you were related. Nim never mentioned it before.”

“Oh yes, so secretive our little Nim. She wants all the glory for herself. Can’t have her old aunt stealing away any of her spotlight.”

“Huh, I suppose I can see the familial resemblance,” Raminus gawked, glancing between the two Bosmers in a state of declining disbelief as he took in their facial attributes. “Yes, it’s the bone structure. The shape of your features is remarkably uncanny.”

“But those scrawny arms,” Lorise tutted, “to wield any decent sword, she needs stronger arms. Strange, my mother was half Nord on her father’s side. My sister and I, we’re quite tall, but Nim? Why didn’t she get any of that?”

Looking both annoyed and slightly amused, Nim stood with a sharp expression as the conversation flowed around her.

“Size and body composition are very complex, multifactorial traits,” Raminus began to explain. “A shared pedigree doesn’t guarantee similarity in stature among descendants. Height is partially heritable, partially environmental.”

Lorise looked at her niece with doting eyes. “Just imagine what a fierce gladiator she could have been had she not been so undernourished in her youth, maybe even a battlemage.”

“I’m standing right next to you,” Nim reminded her, hands akimbo. “You can address me too.”

The clock tower struck above them, signifying it was two in the afternoon. The trio stood awkwardly, Raminus and Nim avoiding each other’s eyes and Lorise happily bouncing her gaze back and forth between the two.

“Well, perhaps I should leave you to the tour,” Raminus suggested after clearing his throat.

“Are you sure?” Lorise protested. “I’m learning so much about the University today. Say, do you know any battlemages who are eager for a fight?”

“Lorise, we should probably get going,” Nim quickly interrupted and inched her way toward the steps leading out of the garden and toward the central rotunda. “The Master Wizard is a very busy man. I’m sure he has many important things to do with the rest of his afternoon.”

Taking this as her note that their time in the University was over, Lorise shook his hand once more and said her goodbye. Raminus watched as Nim left the garden, and once she was out sight, he took a moment to collect his thoughts before his legs quickly ran after her.

“Nim,” he called out and his voice was breathy despite having ran only a few meters.

Nim turned around to face him, found a familiar look about his eyes that spoke of longing and great uncertainty.

“Will I see you again sometime soon?” A soft plea in the intonation.

Nim swallowed and stared, mouth agape, and Raminus waited eagerly for her reply. His eyes shimmered, the radiance of cut emerald in the direct light of the sun, and she felt her stomach flutter violently to the point of discomfort.

“If- if you would like,” she stammered.

Raminus nodded and his mouth twitched, a small smile curling the corners. “Very much.”

She turned away swiftly, ignoring the burning in her cheeks, and even after they left the University wall, the tingle in her blood had yet to settle. She was happy.

Or more accurately, she felt she _should_ be happy.

But for some odd reason she couldn’t quiet the terrible sense of dread that seeped from the depths of her mind, a sinister whisper that said she did not deserve to feel that way.

It was a voice that said,

_No one could ever love a miserable thing like you._

* * *

While the witching hour of darkness fell over Cheydinhal, Lucien sat in Vicente’s quarters awaiting his return. In the near two decades that he had come to know Vicente, the vampire had always kept the same methodical routine, and this, Lucien imagined, was a perfect night for a feeding. As he sat in waiting, he worried his mind over the recent letter from Ungolim. How odd it was that the Listener had decided to postpone the Black Hand’s upcoming meeting without explanation, and as hard as he mulled, Lucien could not figure out why. Suddenly finding himself without plans for the evening, he made the short trek to his sanctuary. There were plenty of distractions to be found there these days.

At last the door creaked open. Vicente entered, not at all startled to find the Speaker sitting there at his table, for his keen senses had detected the presence of a guest from all the way down the hall.

“Ah, Speaker,” Vicente greeted the Imperial with a nod of his head and a saccharine grin as he strode into the room, “how kind of you stop by. Is this call for business or pleasure?”

Lucien replied with a quick smile and cunning eyes. “Both.”

“Can I get you a drink?” He motioned toward the small collection of decanters and bottles on his shelf.

“Brandy, if you have it.”

Vicente set two glass tumblers on the table and a crystal decanter of Cyrodiliic brandy between them. “Have you read the latest edition of _The Black Horse Courier_?” He asked, watching the liquid flow as he poured.

“I have. Not a single word mentioned about the identity of Phillida’s assassin. I told you your worries were unfounded.”

Vicente detected a flippant smugness in Lucien’s voice and looked up as he stoppered his bottle to meet an unwavering smirk on the Speaker’s face. When Vicente had found out that Nim was to be assigned the Phillida contract, he had exchanged more than a few choice words with Lucien regarding the declining state of the Black Hand’s cognitive health. It was absurd! Sending Nim to do a task that three of their own had already failed! Vicente had half a mind to think they desired for her to meet an early death too. He passed the tumbler across the table.

“You trained her yourself,” Lucien reminded him, accepting the glass. “You know what she’s capable of. I don’t understand why you’re so protective of someone as demonstrably lethal as she is." The Speaker grinned darkly. "She's vicious.”

“She’s not vicious. She’s efficient,” Vicente retorted, willing himself not to picture Nimileth as a rabid dog frothing at the mouth. He knew how the girl spent most of her evenings. If she wasn't brewing potions, she was curled up with a tall glass of wine and a tome on Tamrielic history. _Vicious, his left foot._ “And I stand by what I said earlier,” he continued. “She is inexperienced. We’ve already lost one Silencer and two Executioners to Phillida and his men. Your previous Silencer might I add. I simply cannot wrap my head around the Black Hand’s decision to send her to Leyawiin on such a high-profile mission.”

“You coddle her, Brother,” Lucien needled. “It’s quite obvious.”

“I do not _coddle_ her. I challenge her within reasonable boundaries for someone of her skill. She’s the newest member of our Sanctuary for Sithis’ sake. I’d prefer not to throw her into death’s gaping maw.” Vicente took a long drink of his brandy and rested his hip against the side of the table. “I’m quite fond of her after all.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

“I offered her immortality,” he mentioned in a rather offhand manner and looked down at Lucien over the rim of his glass. The man twitched in his seat, sucked in a small breath and held it between his teeth. The offer had unnerved him greatly and aside from a brief widening of his eyes, the reaction was so subtle Vicente nearly missed it.

“And?” Lucien asked, his curiosity hidden behind a well-practiced nonchalance and a sip of brandy.

“And what,” the vampire teased, much to his Speaker's chagrin. Lucien narrowed his eyes, and Vicente noted that he looked a touch paler.

“Did she accept?”

“She said 'thank you but no thank you.'” Relief flooded into Lucien’s blood, the color returning to his cheeks with a sigh. Vicente chuckled and shook his head. “Now, what business did you have?”

“I had a few questions about some of our family members’ progress,” he said. “Antoinetta’s been pestering me about an advancement. What say you? Has she earned one?”

Vicente shook his head sternly. “No, and for her own good, please do not entertain the idea. When she has, you will be the first to know.”

“I suspected as much,” the Speaker affirmed, drumming his fingers slowly against the table. “What about Teinaava? Earlier today he told me about the nobleman contract he was assigned to here in Cheydinhal. I must say, even I was thoroughly impressed. I suspect he was being modest as he described the altercation too.”

Lucien thought back to the conversation they had earlier in the evening. Since Teinaava's earliest days, he had always been a humble assassin. Even when considerably excited, he attempted to maintain his humility with a muted grin, but the Argonian possessed an endearing tell. The scales of his cheeks had the tendency to grow vibrantly green when flattered, and Lucien suspected this was the Argonian equivalent of blushing.

“He thinks he’s awfully subtle, I imagine,” Lucien added and smiled fondly at the memories he had collected of Teinaava in his youth.

Vicente watched the Speaker demurely. Tenderness was a rare occurrence from him these days, and Vicente felt a tiny spark in his otherwise frigid body at the affectionate tone Lucien adopted whenever he spoke of Teinaava or Ocheeva. Ever since the string of murders began, the Speaker had become uncharacteristically standoffish toward him and the shift in demeanor had yet to settle with Vicente who had known him for longer than anyone else in the Sanctuary.

“It was a beautiful execution,” Vicente said and refilled Lucien's tumbler. “I heard the screams all the way from Lorise’s house. You raised him well, Brother. You should be proud.”

Lucien pressed the rim of the glass to his lips and paused. “I am.” He took a sip, felt the liquid burn down the length of his esophagus.

“Alval said his sanctuary could use another Executioner. I think Teinaava’s ready, and no matter the sanctuary he ends up in, I am sure his service shall bring honor to the Dread Father.”

“I agree. Sometimes I think I should have promoted him sooner.” Lucien swallowed against a lump hardening in his throat and quickly pressed a new subject. “And how are you, Brother? It’s been far too long since we’ve spoken, just the two of us.”

Vicente noted a strange tautness in the man’s voice. He took a seat at the table and eyed Lucien for a readable expression. The Imperial smiled with a practiced warmth that to anyone else, would be regarded as sincere. Vicente knew better and he could tell that something else was occupying the man’s mind. He had trained the Speaker in the art of deception after all.

All those years ago, Lucien had come into the Sanctuary with a natural gift, as his own breed of talent. There was no doubt in Vicente’s mind that Lucien had earned his rank as Speaker justly. Sometimes he thought back to their days of training and felt that all he had really done was help to sharpen an already deadly blade.

Such a shame what had become of their friendship, Vicente thought, and he was not without regret and mourning when he remembered the years they had spent enjoying each other’s company. A dull pang of nostalgia echoed in the vampire’s chest when he thought back to the days of sparring, the long nights engrossed in discussion of contracts, books, and their travels across Tamriel. What existed between them now was a strained, cordial business relation, a formality.

“I am sated, and my family is home safe,” Vicente finally replied with a look of solemn gratitude.

“Yet your face is grim.”

“The Night Mother blesses me today. Not all of us can say the same.” Noticing the confusion mounting in Lucien’s eyes, Vicente quirked a brow. “You haven’t heard?”

Lucien stirred in his seat, his face darkening. “Another?” he asked bleakly.

Vicente nodded, and Lucien pressed his hand against his forehead as he took in the weight of the news

“Who?” he inquired, his eyes closed in thought.

“Banus Alor.”

Lucien sucked a sharp breath through his teeth. “It’s worse than I could have imagined.” This must be the reason why Ungolim had made the sudden decision to cancel their planned meeting, he thought.

Vicente offered his sympathies, a somber frown spreading on his features. “Lucien, I’m terribly sorry. I know the two of you were close.”

The Speaker shook his head and cut him off with a sharp gesture. “There will be a time to grieve. Now is not it. When did you hear? How was he found?”

“Taelandril brought the news from her scouting expedition down in Leyawiin. A worried member of his Sanctuary came to meet her. Apparently Banus had left for business in Cyrodiil and failed to return to Black Marsh. The two of them went off in search for him and found his body some ways off the eastern limits of the Yellow Road. He had last been seen in Leyawiin. Did you know he had business there?

“I did,” Lucien replied curtly. “Black Hand affair. It was nearly two weeks ago.”

“I do not ask with the intent to pry. I sent word to Ungolim as soon Telaendril informed me. I thought it would have reached you sooner. I’m sorry. I should have told you as soon as I found out.”

“You’re telling me now,” Lucien said and took a long sip of brandy. “He must have been attacked while travelling back to Black Marsh after our last meeting. And what of Telaendril’s report? Could they determine how he died?”

“Well, I’m afraid neither she nor the brother who accompanied her are coroners,” the vampire lamented. “I read the report. She described his appearance as best as she could. It sounds like he was well into the process of decomposition. Signs of struggle, a laceration along the neck indicative of a garroting, knife wounds through the ribs. Parts of him were missing.”

“Missing?” Lucien used all of his strength to keep from blanching, thankful that the warmth of the brandy worked in his favor. “Missing in the same manner as Maria and Blanchard?”

Vicente hesitated. “We ought to keep in mind that the Black Woods is full of wildlife, and we know Banus was lying off the road for at least a week. But yes, he appeared to have been partially… consumed.”

“Vicente, you know it wasn’t a wild animal,” Lucien said and met the Executioner with a stern gaze. “There are simply too many similarities for this to be coincidence.”

He drummed against the table, his rhythm growing faster. Something sat very wrong in his gut. Another Dark Brother slain, a Speaker no less. He glanced sideways at Vicente, met the man’s sullen frown. Lucien had never met such a razor-edged yet sympathetic member of the ranks of the undead.

“You seem rather certain that this is a sign of treachery,” Vicente said cautiously as he took a drink. “Perhaps there is something the Black Hand knows that I don’t.”

Lucien rolled his eyes. “Of course there is. You of all people should know how we operate. You sat amongst their ranks for over half a century. Let’s not ignore the obvious. You’re an intelligent creature with more sense than most currently in the Black Hand. There is a traitor among us. With the death of Banus Alor, no one can deny it now.”

“If it’s obvious, why hasn’t the Black Hand done anything about it? It seems to me that Ungolim can’t see anything over five and a half feet tall no matter how obvious it may be.”

“Vicente,” Lucien snapped, face contorting into a stiff rictus, “need I remind you that is our Listener. And how do you know we are not working on this issue? We act with caution, Brother. Now is not the time for rash decisions. The welfare of the family rests on our shoulders.”

“My apologies, Brother. We’re all affected by news of the Speaker’s death.”

“On that note, allow me to ask you something. Who among us could possibly be capable of taking down a member of the Black Hand as skilled as Banus Alor?”

Vicente raised his brows in alarm at the question. He gave a brief pause as he debated how to answer and then narrowed his crimson eyes with suspicion. “You wish for me to conspire against my brothers and sisters?”

Lucien released a rough breath. “Never mind,” he said and waved off the question before returning to silent thought and sipping on his drink.

Vicente sensed the growing anxieties and unrest welling within the man across from him. He knew that the Black Hand must have plans in motion by now. Whatever they were did not seem to be settling well with the Speaker. Vicente decided to entertain Lucien’s question, hoping that his intuition for why it was being asked was wrong.

“Within the Cheydinhal Sanctuary,” the Breton began, watching Lucien’s expression closely, “I think only Lorise and myself are both powerful and swift enough to best a man as practiced and skilled as Banus. That is my honest opinion as one who has sparred with every member who calls these walls home.”

“And why not anyone else?” Lucien pressed him. Vicente knitted his brows in concern.

“Antoinetta is out of the question for reasons even a blind man could see. Gogron is simply too large and cumbersome a beast to have performed any feat of stealth. I don’t think Telaendril possess the strength to garotte a man as well-built as Banus. Not to mention he is skilled with magic as well. The same goes for Nim, though I imagine she might know of ways to silence a man.”

Lucien shook his head dismissively. “I wouldn’t have suspected Nimileth anyway.”

“Yet you would suspect any of us?” Vicente's temper seemed to rise.

“This unfortunate sequence of murders began well before she joined our ranks. That is all I meant.”

“The same is true of Lorise,” Vicente asserted with a flare of defense.

Lucien stared coldly. “I am aware of this.” 

“Honestly, I’m concerned about these questions and the insinuation veiled behind them, Lucien. Speak freely with me. What exactly is going on in that head of yours?”

“I told you everything I know, Vicente. I’m trying to make sense of all this myself.”

“And why should you suspect a traitor among any of us?” Vicente demanded, his voice rising. “Ocheeva hasn’t left the Sanctuary in nearly three weeks. Teinaava was in Cheydinhal due to his contract. M’raaj Dar was in Bruma. That leaves me. If you wish to accuse anyone of betraying the Brotherhood, do so now and directly. If you wish to accuse me, you may say so to my face.”

Lucien laughed mirthlessly. “Don’t be so dramatic, my dear old friend. I would first suspect myself.”

Vicente narrowed his eyes to thin slits before relaxing backward into his chair. “This conversation has unnerved me greatly. I worry for you, Brother. The stress of these events is ill-fitting on you.”

“Well, forgive me,” Lucien smirked and waved his hand in a flippant gesture. “I ask because I value your sagely wisdom, Vicente. I hope you do not object to extending your counsel, and I certainly had no intention of making myself an eyesore upon your quarters.”

Vicente’s unamused stare slowly curled to a subtle chuckle. Lucien laughed too despite the heaviness that churned alongside the brandy in his stomach. The two assassins drank in idle chatter, but half of Lucien’s mind was moving at the speed of a racing horse.

Who in his sanctuary could possibly betray him? For a moment, Lucien assumed the worst. Could the Black Hand be wrong about the identity of the traitor?

He needed to get to Bravil. He needed see Ungolim. Perhaps it was not too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk if any of you felt this way, but it always sat poorly with me that Lucien believed a traitor was in his sanctuary. I'd like to think he is a smart man so idk how he got fooled. Even I knew, and I was 10 years old when i first played lol.


	28. How We Unravel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends. I usually try to have a couple chapters written before I post, but my university has reopened so I’m back to doing research and being a real graduate student again lol. Updates are unfortunatley bound to be more infrequent, but I hope you have been enjoying the story thus far.

**Chapter 28: How We Unravel **

“You really shouldn’t be here. Following the loss of Banus, we decided not to meet in person again. Did you forget?”

Lucien stood with one hand on the doorframe and one foot already inside Ungolim’s shack. The Bosmer Listener met his Speaker with a look of plain vexation, his eyes travelling down to the man’s soaked robes and resting on the puddle they left on the wood floor of his home. Rain poured in thick sheets beyond his porch, and the open door allowed a gust of wind and a mist of droplets to spray across his forehead. Ungolim was rather looking forward to yet another solitary evening, but alas he suspected this would not be the case today.

“You read my letter,” Lucien said, advancing into the shack. “You know this is an urgent matter.”

Ungolim stepped aside to allow the Speaker entry before quickly bolting the door shut behind him. He looked to his kettle heating on the spit in the fireplace and sighed. It would be rude of him not to offer his rather unwelcome guest a cup of tea now, and this would undoubtedly obstruct his solitude by an additional ten minutes at the very least. Waiting for the kettle to whistle, he returned to his seat at the table and leaned back in his chair, a resigned expression overtaking his aquiline features.

“Alright then, Lachance, what evidence do you bring to prove their innocence?”

Lucien pulled back the hood of his robes and smoothed his damp hair down along the sides of his head. He watched the Listener’s expression closely. Ungolim only referred to him by his last name when he was peeved or drunk and he certainly didn’t appear to be the latter.

“As I explained in the letter, everyone in my sanctuary has been accounted for. I double checked everyone’s story multiple times. No one was in Leyawiin at the time of Banus’ death. It could not have been one of them.”

“We don’t know for certain when Banus was killed, so how can you be certain none of them were there? This evidence you spoke of, is your word all there is to it?” The Listener raised a very unamused brow. “Is this what you bring me?”

Lucien hardened his stare. “I have been investigating the suspicions surrounding my Sanctuary. Are you questioning the veracity of my word, Listener?”

“It’s your word against the will of Sithis. Which do you think is more pertinent to my decision?”

“Sithis did not decide the fate of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary, Brother. We did, and the evidence that points to my sanctuary is hardly sufficient. I showed no hesitation when you first ordered the Purification as I believed it was the best lead we had. In light of recent events, however, I think it worthy of our time to reopen the investigation.”

“True, you did not hesitate before,” Ungolim mused, “but perhaps you’re feeling human today, Lucien. There’s a first for everything.”

“Pray tell dear Listener,” he said with noticeable edge and crossed his arms over his chest, “what do you mean by that?”

“You’ve not yet given Nimileth her orders. Perhaps that uncertainty churning in your stomach is premature guilt for the impending loss of your family. Be strong, Brother. We knew the price of blood when we pledged loyalty to the Dread Father.”

“Ungolim, it is not my Sanctuary,” he protested.

“Then what have you to say about the previous murders and how they all circle back to Cheydinhal? This treachery has been festering for so long that I wouldn’t be surprised to find out it has corrupted more than one mind in the sanctuary. It is a cesspool that must be purged.”

“Many of our brothers and sisters once called Cheydinhal home and have since moved on to new sanctuaries. I’m not the only who thinks that the evidence is scant at best.”

“And yet the Hand motioned to act, yourself included,” Ungolim reminded him dryly. 

“It is not my sanctuary,” Lucien insisted. “I know this in my bones.”

“All bones splinter under pressure, Brother.”

Lucien released a hoarse breath and quelled the urge to raise his voice. “Will you not entertain the thought that we could be sending our brothers and sisters to the Void without reason?”

“You know as well as I that we are all destined for the Void,” the Listener stated darkly.

“That is a myopic perspective to take on such grave matters, Ungolim. If we are wrong and the traitor lives, what then?”

Ungolim paused and scratched behind the tip of his long, pointed ear. He stared off through the window of his shack, watching the rain as it pelted against the dirt of Bravil’s walkways. When he returned his eyes to the Speaker, Lucien felt a knot tighten in his stomach. The irritation in the Bosmer’s eyes had hardened, and the menacing intent that stood in its wake pulled all of the power out of Lucien’s arguments.

“Then we offer them up to Sithis as a symbol of fealty. The decision has been made. Why you delay eludes me,” Ungolim said with sustained condemnation. “I have half a mind to send someone else to fulfill the rite. Havilstein could use an excuse to come down from the Jerall mountains. Or Mathieu perhaps. After what happened to Maria, he has as good a reason as anyone to seek justice.”

“You told me I could handle the fate of my own sanctuary,” Lucien reminded him, nearly seething at the thought of Bellamont overtaking such a delicate matter.

Ungolim shook his head with scornful disappointment and grimaced as though tasting something foul. “Yet here you are, admittedly not handling it. This is unlike you, Lucien. You’ve become soft. Let us speak no more of it.”

“Listener,” he pleaded. “I’m not done on this topic.”

“You are.”

Recognizing the underlying order in his words, Lucien leaned back in his seat and breathed hard through gritted teeth. He pinched the bridge of his nose, quieting the argument that danced on his tongue. The kettle whistled. Ungolim rose to gather cups and a small tin of tea.

“Ginseng?” he offered without looking back over his shoulder.

“Please.”

The clinking of silver on ceramic dulled in Lucien’s ears as he thought of his pending order. Was there no convincing the Listener? Was the fate of his sanctuary sealed? He would not defy an order from the Listener himself for he had always been and always would be an ever-obedient child of Sithis.

_For the glory of the Dread _Father, Lucien told himself. But still… something felt wrong.

Was it true, had he become soft in these recent months? What could have made him so?

He thought of Nimileth, and the knot in his stomach slackened. In its place grew an unpleasant warmth, sharp and acidic as it gnawed inside him. Too many times he had let her wear away at him, and his patience was now threadbare. Lucien watched the steaming water flow from the copper kettle, and he thought of her laughter. It echoed against his skull, insolent and callous like that of a petulant child’s. The din rang in his ears until Ungolim returned to the table and set a cup of tea in front of him. If she wanted a strictly professional relationship, then she would have it. She would follow his orders. She would learn soon enough that she had no choice. He watched the steam rise.

“And so what becomes of Banus’ sanctuary in Black Marsh?” Lucien asked, burning the tip of his tongue on a small mouthful of tea.

Ungolim shifted and draped one arm over the back of his seat. “I suppose one of our Silencers is due for a promotion. Truthfully, I think it wise we move the Sanctuary to Cyrodiil, let the Shadowscales run their business in Argonia.”

“Where?”

“Kvatch. Count Goldwine is known to turn a blind eye if the price is high enough.”

“Not a bad location,” he said pensively, more to himself than to Ungolim. “Close enough to the Valenwood Border. We haven’t established a sanctuary in the Western reaches of Cyrodiil.”

“It’s not too much farther from Elsweyr either.”

“And who will head the new Sanctuary. Belisarius? J’Ghasta?”

Ungolim blew the steam from the surface of his tea and squinted across the table. The pale green of his eyes looked almost grey in the weak light, and he stared for a long second as though debating something in his head. He spoke after a silent swallow.

“Despite your uncharacteristic behavior and the ungrounded claims you’ve brought up with me today, I trust you Lucien. You’re generally very reasonable and I know you act with the best intentions of the Dark Brotherhood in your heart. I don’t see why I shouldn’t let you know what I’m planning. If we go through with establishing a new sanctuary, I’m thinking to place Mathieu as the head. I say he’s earned it.”

Lucien felt a sudden jolt across his sternum. “Bellamont?” He asked and the incredulity in his voice was not lost on Ungolim.

“You look like you’re thinking awfully hard, Lucien,” the Bosmer quipped. “That’s dangerous.”

“He’s the youngest Speaker we’ve ever seen.”

“Perhaps in your lifetime. Is that a hint of disapproval I hear?”

Lucien met Ungolim’s testing eyes and sighed.

“Ungolim, he’s a talented killer, you know I would never deny it. He has undoubtedly mastered the art of assassination with a ferocious elegance, and I consider myself one of many admirers of his worl. In fact, I believe it was I who brought him to your attention when Uvani’s previous Silencer perished. That said, the role of Speaker is the role of a leader. It requires a nuanced social finesse that I’ve yet to see Mathieu display. He loves to grate on nerves solely for the entertainment. He’s contentious and… wily.”

“And he’s clever beyond his years. Do you remember that contract in Wayrest?” Ungolim asked, and Lucien strained against the urge to roll his eyes. 

“I do,” he admitted begrudgingly.

“He saved all of our skins that week, talked our way out of suspicion with the guards and kept us all from sure imprisonment. If I remember correctly, he saved your life when you found yourself stuck beneath the closing gate.”

Lucien chose not to bring up the fact that he only found himself in that predicament because of choices made by Mathieu in the first place. He had half a mind to think the man wanted to see them all dead by the end of the contract. The whole mess would have been avoided if Ungolim had not been swayed by the young Breton to follow an escape route that was as innocuous as sticking one’s head in a Daedroth’s mouth. Strange how Mathieu always seemed to have their Listener’s ear, and Lucien often wondered what the Silencer had done to inspire such confidence and respect.

“He saved my arm perhaps,” the Speaker stated icily. “My life was secure in my own hands.”

Ungolim took a loud sip and smiled with little mirth. “Mathieu has proved an unerring devotion to the Dark Brotherhood. I think it would be good for us to have young blood sitting among the Fingers. Perhaps our movements have become rheumatic, our eyes clouded in old age.”

“Bellamont is too ambitious for his own good. It lends itself to recklessness if left unsupervised. You should have seen the trouble he and Blanchard got into when we lived under the same roof. If Blanchard could only see him now." Lucien snorted into his cup of tea. "If he knew that Mathieu had come to replace him as Silencer--”

And then realization dawned on him like a winter gale. All the dark siblings they had lost over the past few years were not only tied to Cheydinhal; they were directly tied to Mathieu Bellamont.

_Just like Maria_,_ the woman he couldn’t keep._

_Blanchard, the old, trusted friend. The easy prey. The Silencer he had replaced._

_And now Banus, the Speaker he hoped to succeed._

“You’re thinking again, Lucien,” Ungolim said staring at the Speakers whitened knuckles as they gripped the porcelain handle of his teacup. “Don’t.”

“And the other Speakers do not see this plan for advancement as problematic?”

Ungolim narrowed his already small eyes. “It is not up to the other Speakers. It is up to me.”

“Is the decision final?”

“No.”

“Don’t you think it would be wise to consult the other Fingers?” Lucien asked, though by his tone it was much less a question than a thinly veiled suggestion.

“As I said before,” the Bosmer stressed, “we are not to meet again in person until the Purification has been completed.”

Lucien hesitated before replying, cautious about irritating his Listener any further. The delay in response was noted by Ungolim who stared with a forbidding anticipation over the brim of his cup of tea. He seemed to be looking straight into the Imperial’s mind, daring him to make the accusation hanging on the tip of his tongue.

“Bellamont got his start in Cheydinhal,” Lucien finally stated, his voice full of cold, bitter certainty.

Ungolim clenched his teeth, the muscles along his lower jaw bulging. He breathed deeply and leaned back in his seat.

“Step with caution, dear Brother.”

“You don’t find it odd?” Lucien prodded him. “One might make the case that all these unfortunate occurrences could circle back to him--”

“Enough,” Ungolim interrupted, shaking his head. “What you suggest borders on heresy. You are lucky I have tolerated this conversation for as long as I have. Now I say this for your own sake, let us speak on it no more.”

“He would have every reason to linger about in Leyawiin after the meeting. At least allow me time to investigate the possibility.”

“Let us speak on this no more, I said,” and by now Ungolim’s voice was a low snarl. “That was an order.”

Lucien, the ever-obedient child of Sithis he was, bit his tongue until the sour blood coated his teeth. He did not speak on it with Ungolim again.

* * *

Upon arriving back at the Sanctuary, Nim found herself immediately scooped into the arms of a giant Orc. News of Adamus Phillida’s death had reached the rest of the Dark Brotherhood at an alarming speed and her fellow brothers and sisters of the Cheydinhal sanctuary had been waiting anxiously for her return. Gogron refused to set the small Bosmer down until she had relayed the entirety of the story surrounding Phillida’s assassination in every bloody detail.

“Haha! The toothless runt, I bet he screamed all the way into the Void,” the Orc bellowed and the deep resonance that sounded from his belly jostled Nim who was still clenched in his arms.

“If only I could have been there to see his face twisted in terror,” Telaendril bubbled over, shuddering with excitement. “Such an honor, Nim. I envy you.”

Teinaava turned to the Bosmer and smiled warmly. “Oh Tel, you’re due for a big contract any day.”

“Right,” Nim assured her with a nod, “there are plenty more Imperial Captains. I’m sure more than one of them has done something that would warrant a hit placed on their head.” She then gently tapped on Gogron’s shoulder. “Now if you’re curiosity is sated, may I please be let down?”

After accepting a few more congratulations, Nim pulled Teinaava aside to discuss the fate of the renegade Shadowscale. With the Argonian heart in his hand, he made for Ocheeva’s room, eager to share the news of Scar-Tail’s fate, and Nim hoped that wherever Scar-Tail was, that it was far, far away from Bogwater by now. Hopefully somewhere sunny.

Seeing how Ocheeva was now occupied, she accompanied Gogron and Telaendril to the living quarters hoping to enjoy an early dinner while she waited to receive her reward. Schemer followed behind them and darted toward the kitchen where a heated discussion was taking place as they entered. Nim sat on the edge of her bed, undoing the laces of her boots, and looked toward the direction of the squabble. Vicente and Antoinetta argued beside a bubbling cauldron, an assortment of fresh ingredients awaiting preparation on the counter next to them and Schemer clawing at the skirt of Antoinetta’s dress as he begged for fresh scraps.

“Not the garlic again,” she heard Vicente plead. “Antoinetta, I beseech thee.”

Antoinetta stood with one hand on her hip and the other brandishing a wooden spoon as she kept Vicente away from her cooking with a series of prods and jabs. “But I must follow the recipe, and garlic is a necessary ingredient! You’re 300 years old, Vicente. Shouldn’t your taste buds be dead by now?”

“It’s not the taste! I’ve explained this before,” the vampire groaned. “It is an allergy. An _allergy_. How many ways must I spell it before you understand?”

Vicente’s crimson eyes were fixed on the bulb of garlic that Antoinetta now held in her hand. She waved it about above her head as she attempted fruitlessly to plead her case. 

“You won’t even eat the stew!” she protested. “Everyone here will be worse off if I do not include it.”

“But I will be affected by the stench of it more strongly than anyone here and suffer the consequences for the next twelve hours at the very least.”

Antoinetta stared silently for a long moment, her lips pulled tight into a bloodless line. “Okay,” she conceded with a small frown. “I won’t throw it in, but that doesn’t mean I can’t chop it up and eat it on my own.”

“So long as the fumes stay out of my mucus membranes, I don’t care if you eat ten cloves raw, dear girl.”

“When I’m mistress of this sanctuary, I’ll make sure everyone can eat garlic to their hearts content. Garlic in the eggs, garlic in the bread, garlic in the porridge…” Antoinetta groveled to herself and Vicente humored her by pretending not to hear the muttering as he walked away.

Assured that his poor sensitive nostrils would be safe for another day, he crossed the room and stopped where Nim sat on her bed reorganizing the contents of her pack.

“Ah there you are,” Vicente beamed, pressing a hand on either side of Nim’s shoulders and squeezing affectionately.

“Here I am.” Nim returned the warm smile and brushed the loose hair from her face, revealing generous dark circles beneath large, tired eyes. Vicente sighed in disapproval.

“My dear, you look like you haven’t had proper sleep in a week.”

“It’s been a busy few days.”

“That it has,” he concurred. “A congratulations is in order. You accomplished what even Lucien’s last Silencer failed to achieve.”

Her eyes widened. “He sent Aventina to kill Phillida? Is that how she died?”

Vicente nodded, a subtle grimness in his features. “She never returned, the unfortunate thing. We lost two Executioners in the same way.”

“Do you think…” Nim directed her attention away, looking down at the meager possessions sprawled out on her bed with a frown settling on her face. She scratched absently at the nape of her neck. “Did he mean for me to suffer the same fate?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Vicente assured her, though he understood how she might have made that connection given what he had told her of Lucien’s relationship with his previous Silencer. “The Black Hand requested you specifically because they have the utmost faith in your abilities. Aventina took on this assignment under much…different circumstances.” His answer seemed to set Nim slightly at ease and he looked for a way to redirect the conversation away from thoughts of a premeditated death. “I read about Phillida in _The Black Horse Courier_. They were quite conservative with the details. I imagine the truth is far grislier.”

“They probably don’t want to scare the public,” Nim shrugged. “Honestly, it was the perfect opportunity for sensationalism. I’m surprised they didn’t run with it.”

“I suppose they don’t want the Imperial Guard looking incompetent even in retirement. I almost feel bad for the man posted to watch over Phillida. He certainly had no idea what he was getting into when he took the position.”

“Yeah, poor chum,” she agreed as she remembered the oblivious guard falling face first into a puddle under her paralysis spell. She imagined he must be feeling immensely guilty and incompetent at a moment like this and quickly shook the visual from her head. “Oh, I saw Lorise while running business in the city. We picked up Greywyn’s journal. I’ll leave it in my trunk if she wants to look at it later. Will you let her know? I’m sure she’ll want to tell you all about it when she gets back, so I won’t ruin her surprises.”

“Certainly,” he said, and his eyes searched her exhausted features for any hint of a reaction to the information she uncovered from the journal’s contents. “And you?” he asked. “Did you find out what you wanted?”

“Better.” Nim smiled gently. “And now Lorise is quite intent on introducing herself as my aunt to anyone who lends her an ear which is honestly more convenient than saying we are acquainted by a shared vow to serve the Dread Father.”

Vicente threw his head back in laughter. “Does that make me your uncle?” he teased.

A grandfather who was a Crimson Scar, a Grand Champion for an aunt, and a 300-year-old vampire for an uncle. Assassins all the way across the board. And her mother, the reincarnation of the Lord Indoril Nerevar. Nim’s eyes sparkled at the thought of such a deadly pedigree.

“If the two of you ever get married, than legally yes, you would be,” she reasoned.

“And then I can call you my niece instead of ‘sister.’ What a day to look forward to.”

“I won’t stop you if you’re intent on it,” she chuckled, “but Vicente, your bar for excitement is much too low. You should get out more often.”

“I am due for a vacation,” he agreed, a small flare of excitement brightening his red eyes. “Perhaps I’ll take Lorise to High Rock. She’s never gone and to think it’s been centuries since I’ve last visited Daggerfall. I wonder how things have changed.” A sudden thought came to mind, and he turned to Nim, eyes aglow. “You should come with us, Nim. Lorise would love it! We could go when the weather warms up again, perhaps around Second Seed when the cherry trees are in full bloom.”

The suggestion took Nim completely by surprise. She stopped folding the cloak in her hand and looked up to scan Vicente’s face as though trying to decide if he was sincere.

“And stand idly by while you two make heart eyes and frolic through the streets with cherry blossoms blowing through your hair?” she joked but then seriously considered the proposal. “Actually, that sounds very pleasant. I think I would greatly enjoy hearing you tell me all about the city and its history and surely I could occupy myself when I need to. I’ve never left Cyrodiil, you know.”

“Ah, we just have to find the right time to get away then. I’m afraid with the current climate in our business most travel plans will be considered quite inopportune and unfavorable,” Vicente lamented. He watched Nim’s smile soften and felt suddenly guilty for bringing it up when he knew such leisurely travels was unlikely. “Eventually, we can make a trip of it. I promise you that, Nim.”

“I’ll keep you to your word then,” she chirped before a small clang of ceramic dishware drew her attention back to the kitchen where Telandril and Gogron were setting the table. Nim slid into a pair of slippers and looked up at Vicente expectantly. “Will you join us for dinner today?”

“I’m afraid not, my dear. I promised M’raaj Dar I would practice hand-to-hand with him this evening.”

“Oh, I won’t keep you then. Gods know he doesn’t need another excuse to dislike me.”

“Hmm yes,” Vicente hummed. “I just hope he trimmed his claws. I may be undead, but my appreciation for injury has improved little if any.”

Vicente left with a few parting words, and Nim made for the kitchen where she decided she would treat everyone to a dessert of apple dumplings. She worked down the counter from Antoinetta, and the two women shared stiff smiles and even stranger silence. Feeling awfully uncomfortable, Nim tried as hard as she could to focus on coring the apples, but her mind kept drifting to the Breton beside her. The air between them had become so awkward and strained over the past month, and Nim would bet a pretty septim that Lucien’s affections had something to do with it. She wondered how much Antoinetta knew. She wondered if Antoinetta would understand.

With the dumplings set to bake in the oven, and dinner ready, Nim took a seat beside Telaendril. As was custom when Antoinetta cooked dinner, the assassins ate with a wordless agreement to offer ample thanks and make no comment on the taste or texture of whatever was being served. Bless her kind, young soul, but there was no dissuading the girl from cooking. Her heart was quite set on improving her culinary skills, and if anything, Nim noted she had made noticeable improvements since she first joined. Everything Antoinetta had cooked in the recent weeks was edible at least, and not just to little Schemer.

Idle chatter circulated around the table, and Nim listened quietly as Gogron regaled the rest of the assassins with a very colorful description of his latest contract.

“All right, so I may have gotten a bit careless,” the Orc chuckled, “but the contract was fulfilled, wasn't it? In the end, that's all that matters.”

“So it’s true, the man who placed the mark asked that you bring back his ex-wife’s head?” Antoinetta asked as she grated yet another clove of garlic directly into her bowl. 

“Yes, yes, it was quite the debacle,” he gushed. “The head just wouldn't sever! Cut, saw, hack... By Sithis, I swear her tendons were made of steel!”

Telandril eyed the pile of chopped garlic sitting atop Antoinetta’s bowl of stew with blatant revulsion. “That is a disgusting amount of garlic, Netta, even for me.”

“No such thing as too much,” she smiled and ate a defiant spoonful topped with approximately half of a single clove.

Nim’s mind began to wander about her upcoming tasks. She had missed her last lesson in Anvil, and she was still waiting on word from the Council. Not to mention Fathis’ request about the strange glowing gate near Bravil. And speaking of gates to Oblivion, she had promised herself that she would finally deliver that blasted amulet to Weynon Priory! Next week promised just as little sleep as this one.

The sound of the door screeching open brought her attention back to the present. Teinaava entered and took the open seat beside Nim at the table, helping himself to a serving of stew. “Ocheeva would like to see you after dinner,” he said to her, reaching for a slice of bread. “She says it’s urgent.”

“Another contract?” Nim asked.

“One of our couriers came as we were meeting. He delivered a letter addressed to you from Lucien Lachance. It bears the seal of the Black Hand.”

The table hushed to silence immediately, and Nim found herself staring at faces struck by surprise. She grew very self-conscious in a matter of seconds.

“What’s the matter?” She asked. “Have I done something?”

“A sealed order from the Speaker, it means that Lachance has given you a secret assignment,” Telaendril explained with a doleful smile and eyes that betrayed growing disappointment.

“Is that a good thing?”

Antoinetta scoffed quietly at the question, her eyes focused on her spoonful.

“Oh certainly,” Telaendril continued, nodding her head. “It means the Black Hand has need of your service. It’s just… well, I've been asking for a chance like this for so long. You don’t think our Speaker doubts my abilities?”

“Nonsense,” Antionetta assured her. “I’m certain he has the utmost confidence in your abilities. He’s probably just… in need of Nim’s skillset.” Nim noted the very obvious expression of masked displeasure on Antoinetta’s face. The Breton looked up and met her with a knowing look and worried her lip. “Best not let him down.”

Unsure how to respond, Nim shoved a piece of bread into her mouth and thankfully Gogron filled the small gap of quietude.

“Lachance gave me a special assignment once,” he said excitedly. “Had to go all the way to Summerset Isle for that one, killed me about thirty Elves. Ah, those were good times. None of that sneaking around in the shadows, just the fresh air and the freedom to slaughter anyone I please, at any time!”

“Well, I’ve always wanted to travel out of Cyrodiil,” Nim replied. She stared longingly into her stew.

* * *

As soon as the door of Ocheeva’s quarters shut behind her, Nim broke the wax seal of the vellum envelope and read its contents

“Oh bugger,” she murmured as she refolded the missive and placed it into her pocket. A private meeting in none other than Fort Farragut, how hospitable.

_There are unseen powers working to unravel the very fabric of the Dark Brotherhood_, he had written. Nim prayed silently to Dibella that this wasn’t just another ploy to get her undressed and then quickly shunned herself for such self-absorbed thinking.

She headed back to the kitchen to check on her dumplings and decided to wash the dishes while she waited for them to finish baking. The living quarters had emptied except for Antoinetta who sat at the dining table feeding Schemer a bowl of leftover stew.

“Hey,” the Breton called out softly.

Nim looked over her shoulder to meet the woman’s pale blue eyes staring from a few feet away. “Hi.”

“Nim, I’ve been… I don’t know how to say it,” she sighed. “I’ve been rather awful to you lately, haven’t I?”

“No, you haven’t,” Nim refuted quickly with a shake of her head. “Why would you say that?”

“You don’t need to lie about it. I know how I’ve been acting. I’ve been jealous, Nim. I’ve been acting like a bratty school-girl.”

“You haven’t,” the Bosmer maintained and turned back toward the stack of dishes she had been scrubbing. “You don’t need to apologize for being short with me a few times. We all have those kinds of days. I understand.”

“I know about you and Lucien,” the woman murmured and Nim nearly dropped the plate in her hand as she heard the words tumble out. She whipped her head around, eyes wide with a shock.

“Antoinetta, it’s not what-” she started and then stopped herself in the same breath, her cheeks burning pink. What did it matter why they had slept together? It didn’t change the fact that she knew the woman doted on him.

“He told me.”

“What?” Nim whispered, her expression somewhere between confusion and shame.

Antoinetta averted her gaze. “About the two of you. I’m so stupid,” she whimpered and collapsed against the back of her chair. She buried her face behind her hands. “I knew it would happen. It always happens.”

Nim leaned against the wash basin and stared down at the soap suds covering her hands. “Antoinetta I’m- I don’t know what to say. I’ve hurt you terribly, haven’t I?”

“Do you love him?” she asked in between soft cries. Her hair fell in front of her face, shielding her as she wept.

“No,” Nim replied flatly and shifted onto her other foot, debating whether or not to approach. Wiping her hands on her trousers, she walked toward the empty seat next to Antoinetta and set a hand cautiously on the woman’s thigh as she leaned forward.

“It isn’t fair,” Antoinetta muttered. “What have I not given to him? I don’t understand what I’ve done wrong. It isn’t fair.”

“I know.”

Nim offered her the cleanest napkin in the vicinity, and Antoinetta took it, dabbing at her reddened eyes. 

“But you don’t,” she insisted, her voice frail and lacking any of the bitterness that Nim knew she deserved. “He gives you everything, and you don’t even want it.”

“It’s just a thing of the flesh, Antoinetta. There’s no meaning behind it. You know that’s what he’s like,” Nim whispered and felt a stone settling within her chest as she sat beneath the Breton’s lachrymose stare.

Antoinetta cleared her throat softly, dislodging her voice and working down the burning behind her eyes. “How can you say that when you know it isn’t true? He- he loves you.”

“Please don’t say that. Please don’t. It’s not like that. It couldn’t be further from that.”

“I wish he would look at me again. Like the way he looks at you. I think he looked at me like that before. Before you came.” Antoinetta took a deep, shaky breath and broke out into another round of sniffles that deepened into hushed cries.

“I’m sorry.” Nim offered and stroked the length of her arm. “I didn’t mean for- Antoinetta, I’m so sorry.”

The woman looked up, weary and wounded. Strands of damp blonde hair dampened stuck to her cheeks along the tracks of tears. “Are you?”

Nim swallowed dryly and rose from the table “Can I make you a cup of tea?” She asked. “I think the dumplings are ready.”

Antoinetta nodded and wiped at the skin below her eyes, inhaling sharply as she dragged her tears away. “Please,” she said, and the silence between them was a bit softer.

* * *

Lucien lay stretched out in his bed, flipping through a book on the pillow beside him. The small oil lamp on the end table danced across the yellowed parchment and shed just enough light for him to read the faded in the dark of his fortress living quarters. A sudden screech of rusted metal brought his attention to the gate at the mouth of his chamber where a small shadowed figure entered, the muffled taps of its boots echoing along the stone like water off the eaves of a roof.

As the figure drew closer, he recognized the outline of a woman. A Nimileth shaped woman with a ruffled mess of hair spilling down her back. Lucien lifted himself off the mattress and looked on in surprise. Somehow she had trekked through his fort in silence, her movements up until now imperceptible to his ear. Normally, this would have unnerved him greatly if he wasn’t currently so preoccupied with her presence in his room.

Lucien smoothed down his loose hair, slightly crimped from being held up all day, and rose from his bed to greet her. He hadn’t expected Nimileth to arrive for several days given the infrequency of her visits to the Sanctuary, but clearly she had received his missive and now came to heed the order. He doubted she had come to call upon him of her own volition.

Lucien carried his oil lamp to the desk at the center of his room. Nim approached slowly.

“Why didn’t you enter through the hatch?” He asked, tucking his tunic into his trousers. “You know where it is.”

Nim gestured over her shoulder, and Lucien could just barely make out what appeared to be a pile of bones beyond the gate. “I wanted to see the guardians you wrote about. Did you raise them yourself?”

“Raise them?”

“From the dead. Did you reanimate them or were they summoned?”

“Ah.” He quirked a brow. “Does it really make a difference?”

“Yes,” Nim stated blunty. She eyed him as he lit the end of a long stick with the flame of his oil lamp and raised it to light the brazier above them. He was dressed in linen trousers and a loose cotton shirt, untied at the collar, and his hair was free from its usual ribbon. It hung loose around his shoulders, unkempty and carefree. By his uncharacteristically informal appearance, she guessed that he had been readying himself for bed and that she had arrived with unexpected timing. Lucien turned, caught her staring, and she quickly continued on.

“One implies that you’re adept in the school of conjuration which would leave me utterly mind boggled by the fact that you don’t know a simple flame spell to light your candles. The other implies you’re a necromancer.”

By now, Nim was certain that Lucien’s chameleon cloak must be attributed to an augmented ring or amulet rather than any adroit knowledge of illusion magic. As useless as his fifty-percent chameleon charm was at concealing him from her trained eye, no mage worth half their weight in soul gems was bereft of a simple flame spell. Nim didn’t even want to start the discussion on his lack of skill in restoration. It had nearly left them dead in the forest, and she was painfully slow to forgive.

Lucien chuckled, a full resounding laugh that grew as he watched her frown. “No one has ever called me a necromancer before.”

“Then where did you get them?”

“I was familiar with a man in Cheydinhal who had a penchant for the Black Arts. I had no shortage of bodies and he was in need of fresh material with which to continue his work. We had a deal.” Lucien thought back to what one of the beggars in Anvil had mentioned about Nim when he first went looking to recruit her, something about having frequent business at the Arcane University. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Perhaps you knew him,” he needled. “He was a mage in the local guild hall, Falcar, I believe his name was.”

The name brought with it a bilious churning to Nim’s stomach which was in no way eased by the insinuation that Lucien knew of her association with the Mages Guild. She maintained an impassive mask, and gauging the slim chance of a response, Lucien moved on.

“Now, any more questions?” he asked, blowing out the flamed end of his stick and leaning it against his desk.

“None that I’d expect you to know the answer to.”

"Very well."

Nim approached slowly and let her bag fall to the floor. The lambent light above shadowed much of the Speaker's features, but his eyes glistened, dark and sharp in the faint orange glow.

They stared at each other, mere feet between. Neither moved for a long moment.

“Have I kept you waiting for long?” Nim asked, clearing her throat of the stray dust she had inhaled on her way through the fort.

Lucien shook his head. “No, you’re early. Besides, I know that you had unfinished business in the city to take care of first.”

His previous allusions to Falcar had left Nim on edge and she swallowed a seed of panic as she thought of her visit with Lorise in the Mystic Archives. “What do you know about that?” She asked, holding her blank gaze.

Lucien scoffed, mild amusement in his expression. "Phillida? Have you already forgotten?”

"Oh," she replied softly and then shrugged with a practiced nonchalance. “What’s another old man to me anyway?”

“You are merciless," Lucien mocked, a lascivious smile gracing his lips. “It suits you.”

Nim met him with a fatigued, disinterested sigh. "This again?" She said, with a drawl that spoke of the utter lack of enthusiasm she would maintain should he choose to continue this line of conversation.

Lucien frowned.

“Well, I don’t take it you’re here on your own accord. You received my missive then?” 

Nim nodded and Lucien held up his hand beforeshe could slip in another of her witticisms. “I assume you are ready to discuss the reason why I have called you here.”

She nodded again. “I feel like letters are a bit of a liability in our line of business, don’t you think? There are so many ways for them to be intercepted.”

He paused, eyes roaming over the dust on her skin.

“Everything is a liability in our line of business, my dear Sister,” he said darkly and resented himself for the sudden pang that resonated in the hollows of his chest. “Let us delay no further. I have spoken of a time at which I will need to test your loyalty to our covenant. That time has now come.”

“My loyalty? And what if I fail?”

“Now is not the time for your ornery quips, Nimileth,” he chided her. “You haven’t failed a single test thus far. You will not fail me now.”

“Test?" She asked with an eyebrow raise. "You mean all those geriatrics I killed were part of a test?”

Lucien offered her a grin, roguish yet fond. “There is no need for such humility with me. As of this moment forward, you shall be my Silencer. It is an honor without equal.”

_Silencer_.

The word carried an eerie metallic ring like a deafening silver bell in her ears. He was advancing her to the ranks of the Black Hand.

Lucien stepped closer. “Do you know what this means?” She maintained her ever-stolid expression but he could see that she had tensed, the whites of her eyes a little more noticeable about the edges.

“Can I sit down?” she asked.

He gestured in agreement and joined her at the table. The oil lamp between them illuminated her face, and he saw that her lips had become colorless, her complexion waxen. Doubtless this meeting would trouble her and he sighed softly at her reaction. The worst order had yet to come.

“Your life in the Sanctuary is over. Those contracts are behind you. Now, you will serve the Black Hand." He set his hand on the table and rapped his fingers against the wood, stopped himself from reaching out to touch her.

“You want to hurt me,” she said sternly, and indignant heat underlying the softness her voice naturally carried, “like your last Silencer. Like Aventina.”

“Did Antoinetta tell you about her?” Their eyes locked. Nim shook her head, and Lucien breathed roughly. “You should learn not to listen to all the rumors you hear floating through the Sanctuary. You don’t know what happened between Aventina and I, regardless of what you may have heard, and it has no bearing on the fact that I have chosen you to serve as my Silencer now.”

“But why me,” Nim groused, “because we fucked a few times?”

Lucien shot her a scathing look and balled his hand into a tight fist. He fought back the urge to grab her, and instead swallowed visibly, the lump in his throat hard and sour.

“Do not take that tone with me again. Too long I’ve tolerated your disrespect. It ends now,” he seethed, pointing his finger at Nim and then jabbing it down against the surface of the table. She flinched against the back of her seat as the flash of fury seared across his face. “The Black Hand has invited you to share in secrets that few within the Dark Brotherhood even know exist. You will honor the confidence I have placed in you. You will listen when I speak. Is that understood?”

Nim nodded demurely. He calmed considerably as she stilled, the shift in composure so fast and natural it left her feeling sick.

“The Dark Brotherhood is an ancient organization that has survived for millenia. To ensure that survival, drastic measures are sometimes required. You’ve heard rumors of a traitor that masks themselves as one our family, haven’t you?”

“I thought you said not to listen to rumors float--” she stopped herself from finishing the sentence when she caught his sharp eye.

“This is different, Nimileth. This is not a rumor." Lucien shifted his seat forward and reached out to trace the back of her palm with an airy brush of his finger. She eyed him cautiously, tensing but not pulling away. "Do you understand."

"I don't."

“The Black Hand believes the traitor is a member of our own sanctuary here in Cheydinhal. The infiltration of this betrayer has tainted the Sanctuary beyond any hope of restoration.”

She stared, brows knitted in confusion and mouth pursed. Lucien held his gaze steady on the woman in front of him. The furrow of her brow deepened, and she squinted as through trying very hard to follow along.

“Who?” she asked.

This would not be an easy order to give. She would fight him, Lucien knew this from the beginning, but she had to obey him. This was an order. She had no other choice. He felt the urge to tell her of his suspicions right then despite having no proof beyond the glaring connections that could be drawn back to Bellamont, but if he told her now before giving her the Black Hands orders, she would be even more defiant and tempestuous as she argued against him. The resistance from Nim would be inevitable, but to minimize it, he kept his suspicions to himself. She would have to be informed of Bellamont’s treachery eventually, for her own safety if nothing else.

“From this point on, you are no longer bound by the Five Tenets, and you must break one that you have sworn to uphold. You have been chosen to perform the Rite of the Purification, to cleanse the Dark Brotherhood of this mistrust and treachery.”

Her eyes flew open in horror, mouth hanging agape as a shrill gasp left her. She braced herself against her chair as though readying to flee, and Lucien tensed at the edge of his seat, his instincts preparing to give chase.

The Speakers sudden movements threw Nim into a panic, and she felt her heartbeat spike to a violent thumping that pounded in her ears. If she ran, the struggle would be inevitable. The blood in her arms grew hot with tingling magicka as she scanned his body for signs of a weapon, minimal relief sooting her racing heart when she found none.

“Relax, Nim,” Lucien entreated softly as he replaced his hands on the table where she could see them. “We must have this conversation no matter how uncomfortable, and you will sit here and listen to me. Now, would you care for-” He reached for an empty cup on the table and Nim flinched away as he leaned slightly closer to grab it. She scrambled to her feet, and Lucien restrained himself from standing too. “Sit down, Nimileth."

She stalled.

"That is an order.”

Nim's eyes flew to the rope ladder, back to Lucien, his hands clenching in anticipation. She obeyed.

“Now,” he repeated, “would you care for something to drink?”

“No.” Her tone was clipped and taut, her eyes wide and luminescent against the soft flame.

She felt her breath grow shallow in her throat, mouth like cotton as she tried to wet her lips. She licked at them nervously, finding dry skin there that stung as she grazed it.

“This traitor has been active long before you joined us. This absolves you of any suspicion." Lucien did not look angry with her as he spoke. In fact, he looked quite composed given he had just asked her to kill everyone he once claimed to love. She grew sick, a nausea building at the apex of her stomach just below her ribs. "Now you must demonstrate your unerring devotion to the Dread Father and our Unholy Matron. You are to send each and every one of our brothers and sisters to Sithis. You will spare no one in this sacrifice. Take these items with you. They should aid you in your task.”

Lucien slid a bowl of red apples across the table. Nim picked one up and held it to her nose, the movement numb to her arms. The scent of nightshade and harrada lay masked almost imperceptibly beneath the fragrance of ripe fruit.

“I trust you know what these are and how they should be used,” he said, watching as she inspected the apple in her hand.

“I know what they are,” she bit out.

“Tell me you will take care of it.”

Nim placed the apple back into the bowl and bit down into her lower lip. Lucien watched, spell bound, as scarlet painted the glistening whites of her teeth.

“Nimileth, tell me you will take care of it,” he repeated.

She held silent.

“Answer me.”

“I’d rather not,” she muttered, and after a moment of stillness, a pointed defiance flickered across her eyes. “This is a joke, right?”

Lucien inhaled a deep, audible breath through his nostrils, calming himself before he spoke again. So far she was playing into his expectations. He had anticipated this much.

“No,” he replied. The word wavered in his mouth, feeling heavy. The recognition of something like shame made his stomach turn. This was more sentiment than he could afford given the situation, and he quickly steeled himself against the back of his chair. “The treachery runs through our Brotherhood like a poison. If left untreated, soon enough it shall strike at our heart. We must make sacrifices for the sake of all the other lives that could be destroyed if we allow this infection to fester.”

“What- what proof do you have?” Anger and disbelief twisted across her face as she stammered out her questions. “Where is it? Show it to me.”

“You are my Silencer,” Lucien cautioned her. “You do not give me orders,”

“But who, Lucien? Who could have done it?”

He met her with the barest of frowns. “You are spared from suspicion. You needn’t worry yourself with these details.”

“But how could you order this?” Desperation rose in her voice until her whole body was shaking. “Vi-Vicente has been with the Brotherhood for three centuries. Why would he do it? It makes no sense. What about Antoinetta? She loves you. She would die for you! How could any of them be a traitor?”

“Nimileth, you must stop this,” he commanded her, swallowing stiffly against the dryness in his throat. “Nothing you say will change their fate. They belong now to Sithis, and you shall deliver them.”

“No!” She shrieked and shook her head violently, hair whipping back and forth in a dark blur. “Ocheeva and Teinaava, you raised them! But Teinaava- but he could never! He asked me to kill one he loved as a brother out of his sense of loyalty and honor to Argonia. How could he be a traitor? How?”

Lucien recoiled at the mention of the two Shadowscales, felt a stabbing ache against his sternum. He closed his eyes and felt his body growing warm despite the coolness of the stone chamber. “I have embraced this fate, Nimileth. There is no other way. You must see it through.”

Nim thought of Lorise and the pact they had made to protect each other. She thought of Vicente and his promise of a late spring adventure in High Rock. She imagined the three of them at some non-descript point in the future, the windswept cherry blossoms gliding by them as they walked the streets of Daggerfall. One small, broken family.

Nim held the image behind her eyes, and it was so vivid a vision that it felt almost like memory. She heard her soul shatter like a bone splintering in her chest. The pain echoed inside her, its sharp edges scraping against the walls of her body. The brims of her eyes glistened with the promise of tears, and she turned away from him, hoping to shield herself as she wiped them away. In that moment, she remembered Scar-Tail and his warning, an omen she had ignored. 

She wept silently, the tears falling in streaks that lost themselves behind the hair framing her face. “This is a joke. Lucien, you can’t mean this. Are you- is this your way of punishing me?” She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and returned to him with a glacial stare. “They don’t deserve this, please. It isn’t right.”

“You know nothing of what is justified,” Lucien snarled, the stabbing ache twisting in his chest like a knife desperately trying to carve its way out. By now his body was prickling with sweat beneath his clothes even in the mild temperature of the room. The blood leaving his heart rose to a simmering heat as she stared coldly into him, and he couldn’t understand why he had allowed her to speak back at him for this long.

“Please tell me this is just a joke,” she choked out. He looked into her eyes, and despite the hardness in them, her voice was a frail, wavering whimper “If you’re trying to hurt me, if it’s a punishment you seek, I--”

The words grated against him, the seams of his patience wearing away thread by thread. Lucien rose to his feet and pulled Nim out of her chair in one swift movement. He seized her by her upper arms and gripped them so tightly that he knew she would bruise beneath his fingers. She jerked away from him, attempting to wrench herself free, but the tips of her toes barely touched the ground as he lifted her to face him. He shook her hard. Her head jostled back and forth. Nim squeezed her eyes shut and pressed burning tears though her lashes.

“Do you think the whole of Nirn revolves around you, Nimileth?” Lucien growled through gritted teeth. She struggled against his hands, but he squeezed her tighter still. “Do you think sorrow and pain are feelings only you can experience? I knew them all far longer than you. I recruited them, bled for them, loved them. You cannot begin to imagine what I have sacrificed in the name of Sithis, what I have been asked to surrender to appease our Dread Father.” 

The harsh sibilance of his voice carried a contempt so deep that Nim couldn’t imagine her defiance was solely responsible for it. She squinted her eyes open and behind the scorn in Lucien’s glare was the echo of grief and the hollow pang of loss. She didn’t understand. How could he give her such an order if it brought him this much anguish?

“But Lorise,” she heaved and pushed back against his chest. “Lorise joined after the murders too. It can’t be her! You must spare her, Lucien! Please, you must!”

Lucien shook Nim again, her head rattling against her shoulders. She let it hang limp and listless. With one hand, he pulled the hair away from her face, his palm roughly grazing skin damp and cold with tears. “You wear me thin, my dear girl,” he seethed, tightening his grip on the fistful of her hair as she yelped and squirmed. “Need I paint a picture of what will happen if you refuse?”

“Please. Lucien, please,” she begged him, the burden of her instruction crushing down upon her. She felt her knees buckling beneath her and allowed Lucien’s grasp to hold her up.

“You will take care of it,” he whispered. “You must.”

He slackened his grip on her arms, and Nim slithered out of his hands immediately, crumpling to the floor at his feet. He stepped back and seated himself again, watching as she buried her face in her palms, silent sobs racking through her. She sat like that for only a few more seconds before turning to crawl toward him. She slid her hands across his thighs and clawed into them, a desperate request clenched between her teeth as she pulled herself closer.

“Spare her,” she implored him as she threw herself onto his lap and dug her nails into the flesh of his legs.

The pain in Lucien’s chest quieted as he watched Nim writhe and claw against him. In its place a wicked pleasure set its roots, feeding off the muffled cries escaping her through choked breaths. Her hands bunched the fabric of his shirt, pulling and reaching as though trying to save herself from drowning below the surface of a lake. He slipped a hand under her chin, raised her to face him.

“Why?” he asked, a small smirk reaching the corners of his mouth. “Who is she to you?”

“She’s my blood, Lucien. Why do you care? Why does it matter? You know that she’s innocent!”

“Only you are innocent,” he reiterated. “The Black Hand is unconvinced that the traitor acts alone.” He squeezed tighter on the bones of her jaw, savoring the small wince as she tried to pull her head away. “How many times can you look through me, Nimileth, after all I have done to keep you safe?”

“Promise me you’ll spare her. Let her walk free. You know that she’s innocent,” she whispered and placed her own hand on Lucien’s. She sniffled and stared out at him through dark, wet lashes that blinked errant tears away. “I’ll do anything.” Nim swallowed the sob in her throat and rose to her knees. She leaned forward, into his grasp, and Lucien welcomed her as she climbed into his arms. “I’ll do anything, Lucien,” she begged, melting against his chest as he stroked the length of her back. “Whatever you want."

“I’m sparing your miserable life. What more could you possibly ask for?” he said sharply, a hiss against her ear, but his touch was light and grazing on her back. “You will not meet the same fate as our brothers and sisters. Do you understand that I could have left you to rot there? Had I not requested that you carry out the Purification, another Silencer would perform the rite and I assure you, Nimileth, they would show you no mercy no matter how small. I have saved you from that gruesome end, and now we serve Sithis together. Dear Sister, this is the start of our new life.” He kissed her cheek, the skin salted under his lips. “You are my Silencer. You serve only me.”

“But promise me you will spare Lorise,” Nim whimpered as though everything he had said passed through her. Lucien ground against his teeth. She tugged at the collar of his shirt and pressed her cheek to his. “Lucien, I need to hear you say it.”

“I will not. I cannot.”

He held her head against him, letting tears soak into his shirt as she wept. She clutched the cotton fabric in her fists, pulling it against her burning eyes, and he held her there for some time, until her cries faded to soft sighs and all that was left of her trembling was the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest against his.

A sibilant wind whistled through the oak forest above them and knocked softly against the wooden hatch of his chamber. Nim stirred and when she spoke again, she had regained control of her voice. She pressed against Lucien’s chest, lifting herself off of him if only by a mere inch.

“I promise on my own life that if you don’t spare her, Lucien, you’ll never see me again,” she told him, and the words rang with an alarming resolve.

“Where could you go that I wouldn’t find you?” He whispered, combing his fingers through her hair and running them gently over the tender spot where he had pulled it.

“To the edges of Oblivion if it took me away from you.”

Lucien released a strangulated laugh and kissed her, tasting the dried blood left from the cut on her lip. She squeezed her eyes shut and rested her cheek in his palm, and he sat there beneath the comfortable weight of her body dropping spiritless and defeated in his arms.

“My timid, little Nimileth,” he purred, stroking the length of her jaw and the bruise that bloomed there like the ink of crushed nightshade. “My miserable, timid thing.”

He waited for her to speak, to stir, to confirm that she would carry out her order, but she only lay there limp in his grasp. Slowly, her lashes fluttered open, the hardness in her eyes darkened by the shadow cast from the brazier above. They bore into him with the look of a bear trap, jaws readying to snap shut.

Nim slid one arm around his neck and pulled herself closer. Her mouth ghosted over his. He worried his lip and found the lingering iron and copper stained there.

“Spare her,” she whispered, no longer an entreaty, a demand. A demand that she had no power to give, and Lucien resisted the urge to laugh again. Her eyes bore into his, spoke of promised consequences should he refuse.

She leaned into him. His heart raced beneath her.


	29. Flesh, Bone, and Tears

**Chapter 29: Flesh, Bone, and Tears **

Lorise entered her house in Cheydinhal, a relieved sigh escaping her lips as she dropped her pack to the floor and locked the door behind her. She had spent most of the evening in the Sanctuary, and after collecting the instructions for her upcoming contract, she enjoyed several rounds of drink with her brothers and sisters. Now finding herself thoroughly fatigued and craving a cool glass of water, she ambled toward the second floor, clutching the railing as she steadied herself against her tilting vision. She always seemed to forget that Argonians possessed a natural resistance to poisons and a heightened tolerance to alcohol. There was really no use trying to keep up with Teinaava, but alas, she always tried.

The tired Bosmer dragged her way up the steps with creaks sounding beneath heavy footsteps and made her way to the kitchen where she lit a small candle to carry down the hallway into her bedroom. She lumbered into the room with a yawn spreading across her mouth and jerked herself back into mild sobriety to find Nimileth sitting at the foot of her bed.

“Nim!” She gasped, blinking into the darkened room. “What are you doing here?”

The fatigue that had plagued her moments before fled as soon as she saw Nim stand to her feet. The young Bosmer began to pace like a restless animal, wringing her hands in front of her as she fumbled to form words.

“I- I don’t even know how to say this, Lorise. It’s madness. Where do I start?” Nim paused and sucked in a deep breath. “I can’t. I can't even bring myself to say it.”

“What’s the matter?” Lorise whispered. “You’re scaring me.”

“An order from the Black Hand came for me today.”

Lorise approached the far side of the room cautiously. “I heard from Vicente,” she said and set her candle down on the end table. She turned back to face Nim, inspecting her more closely in the faint light. The young elf looked ill with worry, and a haunting darkness had claimed her eyes. “Is that what this is about, the orders?” Nim nodded and Lorise furrowed her brows. “Nim, I would like to help, but I’m not sure I’m supposed to be privy to that information.”

“Oh, you’re not,” Nim confirmed. Her heart stuttered in her chest.

Lorise watched with growing distress as the girl fidgeted with her sleeves and roamed back and forth across the room. “By Y’ffre, is it so serious? Are you in trouble?”

Nim responded with a grim mask of dread and averted her eyes to the wall behind Lorise. “The Black Hand has ordered a purification. They’ve unbound me from the Tenets. I am to kill everyone in the Sanctuary.”

Lorise released a small gasp. The breath stuck in her throat without reaching her lungs. Her mouth hung agape, eyes widened in shock. She stared at Nim who had yet to stop pacing and now looked like she would be sick any minute. Nim pulled at her amulet neurotically until red rings encircled her neck from the friction of the copper chain against her skin. A silence like cold, prickling sweat stagnated between them.

“They traced the string of murders back to Cheydinhal. They think the traitor is among our ranks, but I don’t know any more of the details. Lucien wouldn’t tell me.”

Lorise stood frozen in place. She glanced down at Nim, spying the hilt of the Blade of Woe in the sheath at her waist. Nim caught her eye and stopped pacing at once.

“You think I’m here to kill you?” she asked with a bitter edge.

Lorise blanched. “What choice do you--”

“Don’t say it,” she snapped. “I can’t believe you would entertain the thought. We made a promise to one another. There must be a way out of this mess. We- we just have to find it.”

“There isn’t one,” Lorise managed to rasp out, “not if it’s an order from the Black Hand.”

Nim glanced down to her empty hands looking every bit as hopeless and small as she felt inside. “He made me his Silencer. I offered him anything he wanted if he would only spare you.”

Lorise’s face fell from shock to a feeble, pitiful frown. “It’s not Lucien’s decision,” she said after some time. “This was an order from the Listener himself. If… if it’s Sithis will, it must be completed.”

Nim grimaced and stared at Lorise incredulously. “I don’t believe you mean that. Do you understand what you just said? Do you know what that means for the fate of--”

“It means that everyone in the Sanctuary is going to die, and you are going to live,” she answered sternly, turning toward the end table where she watched the small flame flicker.

“No! You can’t possibly think that this is right!” Nim protested and seized Lorise by the wrist, appalled that the woman would rather see every one of the sanctuary’s members dead than betray the Black Hand. “Please, I need your help,” she cried out. “What of Vicente? We can’t let this happen!”

Lorise whipped her head around, her teal eyes glistening. “You must leave, Nim. You must leave Cyrodiil. My own father escaped a purification. We have Greywyn’s journal as proof that it can be done.”

“And where will we go?”

“Not we, you. I have to warn Vicente. I can’t leave without him. He… he must know what to do. He was a Speaker once. He will know what to do. The Black Hand is aware that I can’t be responsible for the murder of our brothers and sisters. We both joined after the killings began, yet they chose to save only you. You're safe. Praise be, you're safe.”

“I told him I would do anything if he let you live,” Nim repeated. She dropped her grip on Lorise and wrapped her arms around herself. “Maybe he will give in if I stall a bit longer.”

“No, you cannot trust Lucien to do anything for you. He acts for the Black Hand and the Black Hand alone. He would never defy an order. You should know that by now.”

“Please, I can’t leave without knowing you are safe. What good does running do if I come back to find everyone I love dead? This can’t be the only way. Lucien said that I am no longer bound by the tenets. He is the one who bestowed this contract on me. If he were no longer in the picture--”

“It’s not that simple, Nim!” Lorise shouted, her eyes screwed shut as she trembled. “Lucien is only one finger of the Black Hand. You are merely a puppet to them. If he were to die, he would simply be replaced, and the order would still stand.”

“Then what choice do we have? I will not betray you, Lorise, nor Vicente. I’d rather either one of you slay me in the purification than have your blood on my hands.”

The two woman stared at each other with panicked, tear-brimmed eyes as the room filled with uncomfortable, cold silence.

“There are two options, don’t you see?” Lorise said darkly. “Either you preform the purification to completion, or you disappear and leave it to me. Without you, perhaps I am next in line to perform the rite.”

Nim shook her head hard and fast. “No. Lucien made me his Silencer. He said if I do not perform it, another Silencer will.”

“But without you, Lucien will need another. Either way you will be safe, and that is what matters to me, Nim. This is the only way I can ensure he does not harm you, that he has no control over you.”

“This is insane! I will not leave you to die! In all my life, I’ve never known flesh and blood. Now that we have found each other I’d rather die than know I’ve caused you harm! I have to protect you too. We made a promise to stay together.”

Lorise rushed to Nim and threw her arms around her. She kissed the young Bosmer's head and sniffled softly. “I am not going to die. We will be together again.”

Nim returned the embrace and though a burning grew behind her eyes, no more tears could flow. “You would perform the rite alone? How could you do it? How could you sacrifice these people you cherish and love for a woman you barely know?”

“I know you,” Lorise said stroking Nim's hair. “I couldn’t save your mother, and it kills me every day. You’re so much like her.”

“But I’m not her.”

“You are more like her than you think. I couldn’t save Callista, but I can save you. In a few months, maybe a year when all this has passed and the Black Hand cannot hurt any of us, I will find you.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Nim protested. "You could run instead.” 

Lorise faltered and sucked in sharply. “Vicente and I will find a way. We must. He’s 300 years old. He must know what we can do. Perhaps he can plead our case to the Black Hand. Perhaps we will all run in the end. I don’t know, but you must not be in any part of it. The only way you can be safe is if you remove yourself completely.” Lorise sniffled and wiped away the brewing tears in her eyes as she pulled herself back from Nim. She squeezed tightly on the young Bosmer’s shoulders. “Do you know where you will go?” She asked.

“I have an idea.” Nim told her and returned her stare levelly. “I don’t think anyone will be able to find me there.”

“Don’t tell me then. I can’t know. If someone tries to get it out of me, it’s best that I have nothing to hide.”

“But how will we find each other again?”

“I’ll check Deepscorn Hollow once a month. I’ll be there on the first Sundas of the month. If It’s safe for you to return to Cheydinhal, I’ll tie a green ribbon on the inside handle of the front door. The entrance is submerged under the waters of the Topal Bay. They should remain there untampered. If you return to Cyrodiil and see that sign, then you will know to meet me.” 

“And if it’s unsafe?”

“Then you go back to hiding.”

“But I--”

“You must,” Lorise interrupted, her voice tightening in desperation. “Please, Nim. It’s the only way we can both keep our promise. You’re good at hiding. I know you will be safe if you only try.”

“I know it too,” Nim said weakly. Her helplessness frustrated her, but she had nothing more to give. If it would keep Lorise and Vicente safe, she would run off the edge of Nirn. She wasn't simply good at hiding, she was gifted. Remaining undetected was what she had always done best.

* * *

Two nights later, Nim found herself sneaking her way through Castle Bravil and leaning over an unsuspecting Dunmer. His neatly trimmed mustache twitched ever so slightly as he lay in the deep recesses of sleep.

“Fathis Aren,” she whispered at the man, nudging him lightly against the shoulder, “wake up right now.”

The man groaned, and after a few more nudges, his red within red eyes shot wide open.

“By the Almsivi!” Fathis gasped, and upon recognizing his Bosmer friend, the shock in his eyes faded. A coquettish simper replaced the startled gape of his mouth as he blinked languidly. “Funny,” he drawled. “I was just dreaming of you.”

“Not now you lecherous old s’wit. I’ve come for a serious matter.”

He stretched his arms high above him, and a crack released down the length of his spine. “Nim, you know I’m partial to your visits, but even I have a right to privacy--“

“We need to go the door,” she interrupted and took a seat beside his legs, “as soon as possible. Tonight even.”

Fathis yawned. “The door?” he croaked out, regaining control of his voice as he smacked the sleep from his lips.

“The portal in the Niben.”

“Oh, that door! I knew you’d come around to my proposal.” He nodded, realization taking hold. “Nimileth, I’m thrilled truly, but can this wait until a reasonable hour?” It was then, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness of his room, that Fathis saw the sleeplessness in her face. “What’s the matter with you? You look… I don’t know. There’s something wild in your eyes.”

Nim quickly looked away, a mix of shame and worry furrowing her brow. She had promised Lorise that she would leave, but the guilt of running still gnawed at her. She swallowed her fears and attempted to direct a charming smile back at the Dunmer.

“You’re in trouble aren’t you?” Fathis probed, not easily fooled by the mask she had donned.

“Mmmm, not really,” she hummed, “but I’d like to get away for a while. Cyrodiil has become too… cramped for me.”

“Trouble with the guild?”

“No, no! Nothing like that. And I’m not wanted by the law if you’re worried our association will harm your own name. I promise, whatever mess I’ve gotten into will bring no harm to you.”

“That’s not at all ominous.”

“Look,” she sighed, “I can’t go into detail right now, but I can tell you that I’m packed and ready to go adventuring off to Gods know what plain of Oblivion as soon as you say the word.”

Fathis shook his head firmly. “Even if you weren’t harboring some undoubtedly sinister secret, I still have a duty to castle patronage.”

“You couldn’t have been more excited for an excuse to investigate not two weeks ago,” she reminded him.

“Nim, the count is still my patron. I can’t up and leave without giving notice. Preparations need to be made for my absence. I can bring it up to him tomorrow, but even then this investigation is not something that should be rushed. You can’t walk into Oblivion without some degree of careful planning.”

“Hmph,” she pouted. “I can help you pack.”

“Nim--”

“We’ll talk about it in the morning then? We can plan for the worst, hash out a real bad scenario and make sure we bring everything to get out of it.”

Fathis looked at her with a worried thoughtfulness and frowned. “You really are in trouble. It must be grave danger.”

Nim scratched at the nape of her neck, toyed with the clasp of her amulet. “Let’s just say I am running from a responsibility myself. I could make up five lies to you about the reason why I need to leave right now, but I’d prefer not to lie to you at all. My schedule has been cleared and this door seems like just the vacation I need. If you cannot accept that, then… I guess I will proceed through that gate alone.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” he informed her sternly.

“Because you’re worried it’s too dangerous?”

“Because I found it first, and if there is a publication to come out of anything we find within it, I will not have my authorship usurped by the likes of you.”

Nim scoffed jokingly. “You greedy old beast.”

“In the morning then,” Fathis said. “I’ll speak with the Count and tell him I plan to investigate the strange door in the Niben Bay, but I do need to make preparations first. If you can wait until tomorrow, you won’t need to go alone.”

A relieved sigh escaped her. She took Fathis’ hand and kissed the back of his palm. “You are too kind to me, Fathis Aren. I am blessed with your friendship,” she whispered, squeezing his hand in hers. “Can I use the stationary at your desk? I need to send word to a few people.”

Fathis nodded and then leaned back into his bed where he watched as she set to work drafting out a letter, the scratches of her quill against parchment lulling him back into a gentle sleep.

When morning came, he found Nim curled up on the lounger in his sitting area, a stack of envelopes held loosely in her hand. He threw a thin linen blanket over her and took the letters with the intention of finding the morning courier before he departed Bravil. He glanced at the letters’ recipients. Most were addressed to occupants of the Waterfront District and the remaining were the names of people scattered across Cyrodiil. He recognized only one among them, a Master Wizard Raminus Polus at the Arcane University.

Fathis accepted his breakfast and morning paper from the servant waiting outside his door before setting out in search of the castle steward, Dro’narahe. Count Regulus couldn’t give a rat’s ass whether Fathis had worries about the door, but Dro’narahe had been reading through the reports from the guards stationed on the island with the vigilance of a hawk. She had been pressuring Fathis to at the very least contact the Arcane University at his first suspicion that daedric influences were at play. He had promised her that in time the proper authorities would be notified, but no good would come from inciting a panic before the threat of the portal's existence could be fully ascertained. Finally it seemed the time had come to take action, and though Dro’narahe was less than thrilled about the short notice of his excursion, she was pleased that something was finally being done about the ominous presence in the bay.

Nim awoke a few hours later to the sounds of shuffling drawers in the bedroom. She spied breakfast on the coffee table in front of the lounger and a newly printed copy of the Black Horse Courier.

_Mysteries Afloat in the Niben Bay!_ The title read. She picked it up and read groggily as consciousness trickled back into her sleep-addled mind.

_Citizens of Bravil and travelers along the Green and Yellow Roads report strange lights emanating from a small island east of the Nibenese city. In a bizarre turn of events, the small landmass materialized seemingly out of thin air with the earliest reported appearance occurring in early Frostfall. City guards have feigned ignorance when questioned, but Castle Bravil’s steward has assured our reporters that everything is under careful observation and control…_

“Any riveting news from the Imperial City?” Fathis asked, pulling out an armful of clothing and shutting the drawer of his armoire with his hip.

Nim rolled onto her stomach and peered over the back of the lounger. “Have you talked to the Count? What did he say?”

Fathis chuckled lightly at her expression, eyes wide with eagerness despite the yawn stretching on her mouth. “Well now, aren’t you enthusiastic. You sure you don’t want to have a calm breakfast first before we start planning our journey into Oblivion?”

“I can eat while we talk. I’m quite the multi-tasker.”

“Good,” he nodded and went ahead with sorting through several pairs of trouser. “As long you’re up, you can help me pack.”

Nim shoved half a strawberry pastry into her mouth, nearly choking on it as she simultaneously chewed and swallowed. “Yes, sir,” she garbled out through a full mouth. “I take it this means we’re in business.”

Fathis watched in mild amusement and slight disgust as she chugged her lukewarm mug of coffee, stood to her feet, and brushed the crumbs collecting on her shirt down to the floor.

“Indeed it does,” he replied.

* * *

The boat ride to the small island east of Bravil was calming despite the fact that Fathis summoned a dremora Churl to row them across the Bay. The enormous creature sat in the center of the boat across from Nim, staring at her with eyes aflame as its arms moved in mechanic rhythm to work the oars. At least Nim thought it was staring at her, but she couldn’t truly see its pupils through the red hellscape burning back at her. She decided to keep her eyes closed and instead focused on the sounds of the bay, the white gulls and the gentle waters lapping against the side of the boat as the steady strokes of the oars pulled them away from Bravil’s docks. The Churl rowed them closer to the Island’s small shoreline, and the ride went without conversation.

Dismissing his dremora, Fathis and Nim stepped out onto the surface of the bay and while he secured the boat to a metal stake that was hammered into the rocky outcrop of the island’s base, Nim walked along the water’s surface, angling to get a broad view of the mysterious land mass before stepping any closer to it. She stared straight up the smoothed pathway leading from the water’s edge to the island’s center, and noted the strong air of alienness that hung heavy and damp about the place. Iridescent purple shelf fungus grew on large moss-covered rocks, and thick stalks of unfamiliar red vegetation towered above them, arching over the pathway up to the door. She proceeded toward the island, swatting absently at an insectoid buzzing that had drawn closer. Her eye trailed the dragonfly, blue as sapphire, as it darted away.

Out of the corner of his eye, Fathis watched Nim inspect the odd vegetation that had made a home of the small island. He turned to look at her bewildered expression as he tied off the final knot.

“Those weren’t here last week,” he said, motioning toward an amorphous mushroom head.

“What, the fungi?” she asked. Fathis nodded.

“Whatever’s coming out of that portal appears to be spreading,” he noted, and though his voice suggested worry, his eyes betrayed an undeniably devilish excitement.

The pair of elves climbed the path beneath the dull midmorning sun, taking in the sights and smells of the new flora that had sprouted up in the island’s undergrowth. Rounding the final bend, the strange door stood tall and fully visible at last. Fathis had certainly not been doing it justice when he said it was a _strange_ door. It was a sculpture carved from veined stone, a work of art shaped in the likeness of a bearded man or rather the heads of three bearded men that seemed to share a single set of eyes. Each face told of a different expression. A skeptical grin, a curled snarl, and a large gaping roar were etched out in the grey stone from which bright luminescent light swirled and swirled inexorably.

“Hail, Master Aren!” An Imperial guard shouted as he rose from a stool at a doused campfire ring to the right of the door. Smoke whispered skyward from its embers.

“Gaius,” Fathis nodded in greeting, “and please, it’s Fathis. Just Fathis. What news?”

“Three more individuals have come through between Morndas and today. Two of them seemed harmless enough despite their ravings. I had them taken to the chapel for healing. The other… well.” The guard pointed at a bloodied body at the foot of the steps. “He disappeared through the portal nearly two weeks ago and was belligerently mad when he returned. I’ve sent for someone to come claim him.”

“Has anything else been coming through?” Fathis asked, staring at the door.

Gaius shrugged. “Only the people who have entered as far as I can tell.”

“And how many more have entered?”

“Nine.”

“Nine!” the Dunmer exclaimed in disbelief. He ran a hand through his dark hair and sighed. “That’s more than in the last two weeks alone.”

Gaius shrugged again. “More people have been showing up with a vested interest in claiming whatever treasures may lie beyond. Mercenaries, explorers, fools looking to turn their luck around. More and more of them come around heavily armed and prepared for a long journey. Haven’t seen them again but I’m not looking forward to the fight they’ll put up upon their return.”

“Well, it’s good timing then that I asked Dro’nahrahe to send you some relief. It’s not good for you to stay out here all alone, and now with news of this bizarre phenomenon circulating in _The Black Horse Courier_, I’m afraid even more treasure hunters will come hoping to pass through. No convincing them otherwise, I’m assuming?”

Gaius shook his head. “It doesn’t help that the Count has ordered everyone to stay silent. If the people knew the kind of danger it possessed, maybe they’d stay away.”

“Some people are so eager to meet their makers,” Fathis tutted. “And the new vegetation, when did you notice that?”

Gaius grimaced nervously and readjusted his weight. “Uh, vegetation? I’m no botanist, Sir. New mushrooms and leaves have been sprouting up weekly since I was first stationed here.”

As Fathis and the guard continued talking, Nim swore she heard another voice drifting through the breeze.

“Do you hear that?” she asked, looking at the air around her and attempting to catch sight of the voice itself as it was carried to her on a vein of wind.

Fathis turned to look at their surroundings, at whatever Nim seemed to be searching for. “Hear what?”

She remained silent, her eyes focused intently on nothing in particular as her long pointed ears twitched. The voice became increasingly clearer to her as it spoke. It sounded like a man, a rather jovial, unhinged man, and if she was still as sane as she believed herself to be she heard it asking for a mortal champion.

_Bring me a champion! Rend the flesh of my foes! A mortal champion to wade through the entrails of my enemies! Really, do come in. It's lovely in the Isles right now. Perfect time for a visit!_

“The door,” she replied and furrowed her brows as she turned slowly to face it. “It’s speaking to us.”

“Nimileth, don’t tell me you’re already going mad,” Fathis said, half-jesting.

“Shhh,” she hushed him with a scowl and waved him into silence. It certainly sounded friendlier than the black door of the Sanctuary but its message was no more closer to sunshine and rainbows.

“Well,” Fathis gestured. “What’s it saying and why can’t I hear it?” He looked down at Nim curiously and with a hint of envy for all he heard was the gentle waters of the bay lapping against the islands jagged perimeter.

Nim turned toward Gaius, noted the panic in his face. “You hear it too, don’t you? The voice from the door.”

Fathis met the guard with a surprised expression that slowly hardened to cautious skepticism. He hadn’t mentioned hearing any voices and the notion that he might have been withholding such information was greatly troubling.

Gaius shifted uncomfortably again with an increasingly guilty look.

“I didn’t want anyone to think I was going crazy too. I’m not! It’s the cursed door! The voices from nowhere, the madmen, where does it end?” Gaius squeezed his eyes and held his head in his hands. Slowly, he brought his breath back to normal. “I’m not going mad,” he said, reassuring himself more than anyone around him. “How did I even get this posting?"

Fathis bounced his gaze between Nim, the guard, and the glowing door. “There, there, Gaius. I believe you,” he said, patting the man gently on the back. Gaius breathed a small sigh as the tension began to unwind in his shoulders. “Your relief should be coming later today and then you’ll have some time to yourself. Take the week off. Have a beer. See your family. Unwind a bit and stop thinking about this cursed door. My associate and I will be conducting our own investigation from here on out.”

“I still say steer clear of that door, Master Aren. Nothing good to be found on the other side of it. Of that, I'm certain."

Fathis stared into the lights of the portal. Though he heard no voice calling out to him, he easily understood why so many were drawn to enter the mysterious swirling void that lie beyond. He stepped forward and the guard beside him shifted nervously. Fathis strode on, beckoning Nim to follow with a wave of his hand, and Gaius watched in disbelief as the pair waltzed up the stone steps to the gaping mouth of the towering door.

“Well, we’re going in now, Gaius,” Fathis called out to him with a small smile and casual wave. “Bid us a safe journey.”

As his senses finally caught up to him, Gaius sprinted up the steps and threw himself in front of the portal before them with his arms outstretched. “Master Aren, you can’t be serious! You can’t go in there.”

“As serious as a cardiovascular infarction, my dear Gaius. Please step aside.”

“No, you can’t mean it! No one comes out sane! The people that leave there are twisted, and--”

“Gaius, I appreciate the concern, but it needs to be investigated. Otherwise more and more will seek entrance. Who knows what will come out of it next? Perhaps something or, more worrisome, _s__omeone_ not entirely of this plane.”

“I- I can’t stop you,” Gaius stammered out. “But if you come out like that man, that maddened man, I’m going to have to… take you down.”

Nim gave a lazy, unconvinced frown as she pondered the threat, but Fathis nodded his head in agreement.

“You have your orders,” he said with a sympathetic smile, "though I hope it does not come to that. Perhaps we’ll be able to close this thing permanently and get you off this damned little island for good. Now, Nimileth, let us waste no more time.”

With his arm hooked around hers, the pair disappeared through the glowing portal. For a second, whorls of blinding yellow and lavender were all she could see. Nim felt her whole body enveloped in warm radiance as though the light itself was a set of grasping hands that wrapped themselves around her chest. It compressed her so tightly that all air was squeezed from her lungs, and though it lasted for only a few moments length, she was certain she would suffocate then and there in the fiery glow.

Inhaling a deep breath, her vision slowly returned and she found herself staring into a dark hallway. Grey stone bricks lined the walls and floor, and a rhythmic ticking echoed steadily along the endlessly black corridor in front of her. Nim sniffed the air, searching for a hint of must so redolent of dark stone fortresses but instead, the room smelled vaguely floral, like rotting flowers and the warm, still waters of a ripe summer fen. She reached beside her, feeling instinctively for her Dunmer companion and a jolt of relief dissipated through her as her hand found his. Finally, she raised her head and turned around to greet their new surroundings. A single table stood before them with a man in red and black finery seated behind it. Pure blackness swallowed the doorway behind him.

The gaunt, balding man sat with a dry expression resting on his weathered features. He sighed as he saw the pair of elves stiffen and exchange worried glances. Fathis stepped forward, pushing Nim slightly behind him as the man began to speak.

“Ah, there are two of you. How keen.” A second stone chair materialized across from him, and he gestured toward them with an outstretched arm. “Please. Let’s be civil, shall we. I assume you’re here about the door?”

Fathis briefly narrowed his eyes at their host before taking the seat offered to him. The man’s long angular facial structure suggested a Breton heritage and he spoke with the well-bred condescension of nobility.

Fathis leaned back against the chair. “Is this truly the Shivering Isles?” He asked, hiding any alarm he may be experiencing behind a cool smirk.

“Almost,” the man replied. “You approach the Shivering Isles. Through the door behind me lies the realm of Sheogorath, Prince of Madness, Lord of the Never-There.”

“And you are?”

“Haskill, Chamberlain to Lord Sheogorath.”

“A pleasure,” Fathis said, bowing his head in respect. Haskill stared unblinking with an unwavering amount of boredom tugging at the corners of his face. The Dunmer began again. “If I may ask, why has Lord Sheogorath chosen to open a portal to his realm here and now?”

“The door is an invitation and nothing more,” Haskill explained. “It poses no danger to Mundus; no compact has been violated. Those who enter do so of their own discretion. As for my Lord’s intent…to attempt to fathom it is a foolish endeavor.”

“Fair,” Fathis nodded, “but I disagree that it poses no danger. All who leave this place are driven mad.”

“And so?” Haskill raised a brow. “Those who came before you were ill-prepared for what they found in the Realm. Their minds have become the property of the Mad God. They exist now in different state of being.”

“I heard his voice calling outside the door. He said he seeks a champion,” Nim spoke up. She had not moved from her original position upon entering the strange room and stood stone still as Haskill turned his eyes to her.

“Oh. She speaks,” Haskil drawled. “Astounding.”

“But it’s true then? He wants someone to do his bidding. You must know why he finds himself in need of a champion.”

“I didn’t realize my Lord needed an excuse to pursue such an aspiration. It’s well within the rights of any Daedric Prince to obtain their own mortal champion. Perhaps it will be you.” Haskill sighed roughly, his listless eyes flitting over to Nim as she inched her way forward. “Perhaps it will not.”

“And if we have no desire to be Sheogorath’s champion?” she asked.

Haskill shrugged with palpable disinterest. “You may just as well leave the way you entered. Your life will be none the worse for your time spent here. Or, you may continue onward, through the door behind me. If you can pass the Gates of Madness, perhaps the Lord Sheogorath will find a use for you.” He stared blankly, his face unflinching and skin wrinkled like crumpled parchment stretched over his skull. “Now enter or do not, but make your decision. I've other duties to which I must attend.”

“Well, we’re certainly entering,” Nim answered for the both of them.

A small smile quirked at the corner of Haskill’s mouth.

“Wonderful. I’m sure my Lord will be most pleased. That is assuming you ever manage to meet him. You’ll need to pass through the Gates of Madness first, and do mind the Gatekeeper. He rather dislikes strangers to the Realm.” Haskill stood from the table and nodded his head. “Enjoy your stay.”

Fathis and Nim made to follow after him, the screeching of their stone chairs briefly interrupting the steady sound of the metronome’s ticking. Before they could even round the table, Haskill dissipated from view, his body vanishing into the darkness before them. The elves exchanged bewildered looks before Fathis tried the door. It did not budge or give way in the slightest.

“I’ll be damned,” Fathis cursed.

“Are we trapped?”

“And he seemed like such a polite old fellow.”

Nim rifled through her pack in search of a lockpick while Fathis cast a few unsuccessful alteration spells in vain attempt to unlock the door. Suddenly, a small beam of blue light broke through the stone. Nim rushed toward it and fingered the tiny crack in the wall, less than an inch in diameter. Warm air brushed against her skin and she rose to her toes to peer through it. Her attention quickly turned toward the shifting wall across from her upon which dozens of new cracks appeared. The thin slivers of light collected at the center of the room and a single butterfly pirouetted through the air before it rested on the metronome at the table. It sat there, it’s emerald wings opening and closing before it was joined by another. A purple one this time, shimmering like amethyst. Then a gold one. The stone bricks rustled. Nim gasped and watched breathlessly, Fathis holding her steady in his arms, as the room crumbled around them.

The walls broke away into a stream of butterflies, the scales of their wings opalescent and their hues constantly shifting as they fluttered skyward. As the flutter wings travelled away from them, they turned their attention to the Realm and found themselves on the top of a hill surrounded by fungi as tall as black oaks and as gnarled as mountain-born spruce. The alien landscape swelled with air that was sweet and heavy with rot. It reminded Nim of the Blackwoods, and when she closed her eyes she lost herself in the white noise of insect chirping and the distant call of carrion birds. Fathis looked on ahead and surveyed the road before them. Old marbled pillars lined a paved stone path that stretched down into rolling hills that cradled pools of stagnant water.

Nim shielded her eyes and looked skyward, finding a murky blue haze that told no sign of the sun’s position above. _Was there even a sun here,_ she wondered, but there was light and if so, there had to be a source.

Fathis was squatting next to a rock on to which dozens of limpet-like creatures were clinging. He prodded at one using the blunt end of a twig with the morbid curiosity of a young child poking at a dead animal in the road. After pulling a glass vial out of his pocket, he scraped one in and corked the mouth. “Well,” he said, pivoting himself to face Nim. “I hope you’re far enough away from those responsibilities to focus on not damning our souls while we’re here.”

Nim tore her eyes away from a glowing green mushroom. “Aye, Master Aren,” she replied. “I shall devote all my energy to the endeavor.”

“Good. I can’t have you turning mad on me. I don’t know what I’d do if you got any stranger.”

“Say Aren, got anymore of those specimen jars? There’s some weird black goo oozing out of those mushrooms down there.”

Fathis passed a vial over to her with his face split into a wide grin, and after collecting a few more samples they proceeded down the path toward the distance roofs of a small shambled town. On the way, they ran into a strange frog-like being that attacked them with a rudimentary club decorated by vaguely familiar markings. Running his finger along the etchings, Fathis recognized the weapon’s craft from a club that had been recovered off one of the deranged individuals who had made it back through the portal. Inspired by the discovery, he persuaded Nim into a detour as they scouted the nearby marshes for more signs of these strange frog-beings.

* * *

Nim and Fathis spent days in discreet observation as they detailed the habitats and cultural practices of the species they had come to know as _Grummites_ according to the locals_. _They followed the iridescent Elytras, the twisted Gnarls, the spindly Hungers, and Nim didn’t pay one extra thought to the circuitous route. New callouses formed on her fingers from all the notes she had taken and her hands were constantly covered in the sheen of grey graphite. The first week had come and gone and by the end neither Nim nor Fathis knew how many days they had spent in the Shivering Isles. The minutes blurred into hours, the hours into days. Days melted into night and orange and purple blurred together as it painted the sky above them.

It was frightening at first, how easily they had lost track of time while frolicking through bloated fens and calm shorelines. There was something about the Isles that ripped away Nim’s anxieties and left her feeling lighter than the damp air around her. Whether it was strange pollens and spores that found their way into her brain or simply the daedric magic imbued in the breeze itself, Nim lived in perpetual intoxication. Many more days passed in varying states of euphoria as they sampled the native flora and fauna in a blissful stupor. At the end of their second week, however, a brief moment of clarity forced itself upon them and shook them violently from their daze.

A newcomer had entered the tavern at Passwall, a young man of Nim’s age who hailed from Leyawiin. He found his way to their table, noting that they, despite the manic smiles on their faces as they transcribed their field notes, still appeared to be the most sane of the town’s occupants. His name was Pilus and he had heard about the strange door in the paper, came looking for something to do with all his free time now that he had finished school. Fathis and Nim had all but forgotten about the Gates of Madness and Sheogorath’s call for a champion, but when Pilus asked them to join him on his quest to reach New Sheoth, they accepted with pleasure.

Bounding up toward the Gates if Madness, they met the towering Gatekeeper in all his stitched-fleshy glory. He battled a band of hopefuls with an ease reminiscent of crushing an ant beneath one’s thumb. Recognizing the fight was futile, several men and women retreated, but by then Pilus was nothing but an unrecognizable puddle of bones, blood, and sinew. 

It was a sobering and unpleasant realization that they had been a bit careless as they traversed the Realm, that up until then they had no idea of what true danger tasted like in the flavor of the Isles. Around them, the Fringe appeared a little grayer and strangely… a little bland. Peeling their eyes away from what remained of Pilus, Nim and Fathis exchanged a knowing look. It was time to enter through the gates and greet the chaos that ran freely behind it.

It was time to learn what colors danger wore best.

* * *

The Gatekeeper was said to be invincible, and of all the fights Nim had seen since entering the Fringe, she concluded that he did indeed appear quite impossible to kill. After a few nights of reconnaissance, however, she had come to learn that the tears of the Gatekeeper’s creator, Relmyna Verenim, were supposed to cause harm to the deadra trapped within the atronach. Relmyna’s apprentice, Nanette Don, had been quite forthcoming with the information, and seeing how Relmyna frequently berated and belittled the poor woman, Nim could understand why she was so willing to part with the secret.

Now Nim sat waiting in the Wastrel’s purse turning a small vial of Relmyna’s tears over and over in her pocket. Fathis had said to meet her there that evening. He had been doing his own investigations it seemed.

Finally the Dunmer strolled in with a tall Nord at his side, and spying Nim at the far table, made his way over with a satisfied grin.

“Jayred, this is Nimileth. Nim, we’ve got it all planned out. He knows how to weaken the Gatekeeper. He also likes bones. I think the two of you will get along splendidly.”

“A pleasure,” Nim offered in greeting. Jayred grunted in response.

“Jayred Ice Veins,” he announced with a booming voice. “You ever wonder why things look better with their skin off?

Nim blinked a few times as the Nord awaited her answer. “Because… you can see the bones?”

“Aye!” He bellowed. He eyed her up and down for a curious moment. “You’ve got some nice bones yourself.”

Noticing the growing discomfort on Nim’s face, Fathis nudged the burly man. “Go on. Tell her the plan then.”

“Fathis tells me you’re good with a lockpick. If it’s true, you can get us into the Garden of Flesh and Bone.”

“Isn’t that where Nanette said the Gatekeeper was created?” she asked.

Jayred nodded. “I can see the bones of his failed brethren in the courtyard of the Garden. The best way to kill a thing is with the bones of its own. You pick the lock, I get the bones. Then I make some arrows with them. We kill the Gatekeeper. Sound good?”

“Sounds… good,” Nim replied cautiously. “It certainly won’t hurt to have another way to weaken the Gatekeeper.”

“Another way?” Fathis asked.

“I’ve also got Relmyna’s tears. Supposedly, they agitate the Daedra bound to the Gatekeeper’s body and force it to strain harder against its wards.”

“Uh-uh,” Jayred grunted and shook his head. He tapped against his skull and a series of loud thuds echoed back. “Pitiful magic! What you need is bones.”

“Um, okay. Like I said, I don’t see how it could hurt us anyway. We can tip the arrows with the tears.” She looked to Fathis for guidance, but the man simply shrugged.

“Good,” Jayred said. “The sooner the better then. I can hear the bones calling me.”

The two elves exited the inn and fell into step behind Jayred as he led them to the Garden.

“Didn’t you tell him that you could use a spell to open the lock?” she whispered to Fathis. “I mean, really I don’t mind exploring cemeteries but an unlock spell is just as effective as my infiltration.”

Fathis smirked back at her, his red eyes reflecting errant moonlight. “Jayred said he doesn’t believe in magic.”

“What? What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know,” Fathis shrugged, “but he said he believes in bones.”

As dawn broke the jeweled red of the night sky, the trio stood victorious, drenched in sweat and splattered in blood with a dead Gatekeeper at their feet. Circling the giant atronach, Nim spied the keys sewn into the flesh of his abdomen and reached down with a firm tug to free the skin from its stitching. Wiping the excess gore off on her pants, she turned toward the two men that had aided her in battle and waved the keys above her only to find that neither was particularly interested in the keys jangling in her hand. Fathis was kneeling beside the Gatekeeper, deeply engrossed in reading the runes carved into the quilted flesh. It was a brilliant work of both conjuration and necromancy, and if the guild ever caught wind of it, Traven would pass out in his evening slippers. Jayred on the other hand was carving off one of the Gatekeepers toes with alarming ardor.

Without any sign or warning, Haskill materialized from a purple cloud of smoke that dissipated across the white marble stone. He cast a weary look toward the downed Gatekeeper and sighed. “So you’ve killed the Gatekeeper. Pity.”

With both members of her party occupied, Nim approached the Chamberlain, the keys jingling in her palm as she walked.

“And now I can unlock the gates, right?”

“You seem to understand how keys work. Remarkable.”

Ignoring the slight, Nim motioned toward the gates. “There are two doors. Where do they lead?”

“One leads to Mania, the other to Dementia. Enter through either one. Though you’ll notice that the lands are quite distinct, they both belong to Sheogorath’s domain.”

Nim turned to retrieve her companion when Haskill called out after. “Wherever you chose to venture, you’ll want to speak to Lord Sheogorath. I believe he has plans for you. Try not to disappoint him.” And with his final comment, the man disappeared again. Nim watched as his image faded and felt a twang of jealousy. Such a spell would be quite handy in her endeavors.

Fathis and Nim didn’t deliberate for long on which gate to enter. With the rush of battle strengthening their step, the two bounded off into gold-tinted swamp lands, bubbling over with so much excitement it would have been criminal had they found themselves anywhere else but Mania.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Friends. So just a bit of a heads up – I have no intention of novelizing the whole of the Shivering Isles questline. I would really like to add more Fathis and Nim chapters but it has been a long, long time since I’ve played the SI and I wouldn’t be able to do it justice. Not to mention it would totally shoot the pacing of the story and push off those dramatic chapters I have lying in wait. I’ll deinitely throw some retrospective references to Nim’s time in the SI in later chapters, but I’ll probably be keeping it pretty condensed in the immediate future. Thanks for reading :)


	30. Descension

**Chapter 30: Descension**

Lorise hadn’t slept a proper night in weeks, and for good reason. With what she knew of the Black Hand’s intentions, every creak of the floorboards, every shadow cast along the wood paneling could be the harbinger of death sent to bring her soul to the Void. The insomnia made for poor preparation in her arena battles, and she thanked whatever deity might be listening that no one had rose to challenge her title in the recent weeks. Still, she looked forward to the time spent out of her house; life on the road between Cheydinhal and the Imperial City served as a brief respite from the paranoia brewing in the small confines of her home.

A month had passed since she last spoke with Nim. She had visited Deepscorn Hollow earlier that week, leaving no ribbon on the door. She wasn’t sure why she went at all knowing their situation hadn’t changed, but something about the mildewed stone fort and its water-logged isolation brought her cold, quiet comfort. It reminded her of the promise she strived to keep, of a hopeful future to dream of in her waking hours now that sleeplessness racked her every night.

Finding her way back to Cheydinhal, Lorise inspected her front door, careful to search for signs that her lock had been tampered with. Despite finding nothing to trigger alarm, she proceeded inside with a brewing sense of dread that prickled the hair along her arms and turned her blood to ice. Her heartbeat rose to a thumping cadence. She scanned the first floor, found nothing out of place.

Lorise began her ascent up the stairs and steadied her breathing. She readied the dagger at her side as her eyes darted to the dark corners of her kitchen and the shadowed frame of her bedroom door. Reaching the top landing, she spied a silvered silhouette in the corner of her eye, and without a single moment’s pause, she pivoted on her heels and struck out into the darkness, making contact with flesh. The intruder blocked the full strength of her attack, but she knew that she had struck and felt the warmth of fresh blood spray across the back of her hand.

The intruder growled at the stinging pain, and Lorise identified it as the voice of a man. He shoved against her with his shoulder and fought to pull away at the blade that she plunged toward his face. As her eyes grew more adjusted to the dark, she saw that the point of her dagger had sliced cleanly across his cheekbone. He struggled against another downward thrust as she pushed harder against him.

The man was larger than her, and using the extra mass to his advantage, he ran Lorise into the far wall lined with shelves. Ceramic pottery crashed to her head and then to the floor below her. Blood coated her mouth, her upper lip busted against an elbow that had struck her in the face. Disoriented amidst the chaos, she felt the man work the dagger free from her grip and heard a distant _clang_ as he tossed it over the edge of the banister. 

Kneeing him in the stomach and wrenching herself free from his grasp, Lorise raced to the kitchen and ripped the butchering knife from its block. She readied herself for the next attack as soft footfalls followed behind her. Rolling onto the tips of her toes, she prepared to lunge, but as her intruder stepped into the errant moon beams shining through the window behind her, she caught the bloodied face of her Speaker darkened beneath the shade of his hood.

Lorise rushed him, pressed the knife against his throat and snarled. “_Get out of my house_.”

Lucien smiled darkly, savoring the sting of the blade’s edge piercing his skin as he swallowed. He gazed down at Lorise, his eyes laughing. “As hospitable as ever, my dear sister. This welcome reminds me of the first time we met. What a fond memory it was.”

“You homicidal psychopath.” Lorise clenched her fist around the hilt of the knife for a moment longer. Her arms trembled in fury before she pulled it away, but ahe held it pointed at him, daring him to step closer.

Lucien brushed a loose strand of hair from his eyes and gave a warm smile. Blood flowed freely down his cheek and collected in thick drops as they traversed the bristles lining his jaw. “It’s like looking into a mirror, isn’t it? Don’t worry, sister. I’m not here for you.”

“What then?” she seethed through gritted teeth. Lucien held his smirk, his eyes now directed at the knife she held pointed at him. With great reluctance, she laid it to rest on the counter.

“Tell Nimileth that I need to see her.”

Lorise squinted at him, then scoffed. She wiped the blood from her cut lip on the back of her hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play the fool, Lorise. It’s unbecoming of a woman as accomplished as you.”

“I don’t know where she is.”

Lucien breathed out rough and audibly through his nose. The muscles of his jaw bulged as he narrowed his eyes to sharpened slits. He fished a sealed envelope out of his pocket and held it out toward her. Lorise stepped an inch closer, close enough to see the mark of the Black Hand inscribed in the red wax seal.

“Here,” he said, motioning for her to take it. “You have new orders from the Black Hand. You are to see to them immediately. Whatever games you think you have been playing end here. Do not delay. Your life and Nim’s depend on it.”

Her heart thundered in her ears as she accepted it. The parchment of the envelope felt like stinging needles in her hand, and she squeezed tighter until the burning reached the muscles of her forearm. She nodded.

Lucien parted his lips to speak and then swallowed whatever words coagulated on his tongue. He turned away, directed his gaze to the broken pottery that lined the hallway. He stared intently at the ground, his mind turning and turning like great dwemer gears.

“Lorise,” he said, his voice a coarse, graveled whisper, “where is she?”

It was a breathless, starved request, and the weight of desperation that clung to the words made her stomach turn. “I told you already. I know nothing.”

Bitter eyes remained on her, hardening with hunger like an envenomed blade. “I order you to tell me.”

She shook her head.

“I don’t know, Lucien. I never knew.”

Lucien glared at Lorise, his oaken eyes like roaring wildfire as they searched her. His chest rose and fell rapidly in deep, angry breaths as he struggled to contain the frothing rage that churned like a tempest in his gut. When he spoke again, however, his voice was warm and collected, the smoky resonance of dark velvet.

“Tell her that she can come back now,” he said and offered a small smile that did not reach his eyes. “Tell her that you’re safe.”

“And is she?”

“Is she what?”

“Is she safe? Or will you slay her for insubordination the moment she makes her presence known?”

Lucien faltered for a moment, and Lorise watched as the blood dripped off his face and disappeared against the black fabric of his robes.

“No harm will come to her as long as she returns promptly to fulfill her duties. Do note that time is running out for our dear sister. The Black Hand grows restless. Delay further and there will be no hope of forgiveness.”

Lorise focused on a dark line of thought and squeezed her eyes shut. “Why should she come back?” She looked up again, her expression skeptical. “Why should she believe you’ll guarantee her safety?”

“Perhaps she shouldn’t," Lucien grinned wickedly. "Sometimes I lie.”

* * *

Evening’s Star was fast approaching, and the warmth of autumn had flushed and faded leaving only bare branches on the trees lining the walk-ways of the Arcane University. In the dark hours of evening, Raminus sat at his desk and squinted as he read through the blurred ink of Nim’s letter for the second time that day. News of her sudden departure came as a stabbing shock to him, and foolishly his first thoughts were that his confession had chased her away. That worry, however, was soon discarded and replaced with an unadulterated fear for her safety. It was obvious from the hastily scrawled penmanship and occasional misspellings that she had wrote it under duress.

_Raminus,_

_I know this will come as a suprise too you. It’s a surprise to me to. I need to leave Cyrodiil for a while. By the time you read this, I’ll be gone—familial emergncy. _

_Family, you know? Who knew they could be so needy?_

He stopped reading halfway through. What use was it? He had received the letter two weeks ago and had spent much of that time attempting to decipher some secret message that may spell out her danger only to come up empty handed. He sat with worry eating apart his insides as he seriously entertained the thought of taking the letter to a cryptographer if only to rule out that there was any cry for help hidden within the message.

The Council had grown restless in her absence. Without her contentious presence to direct their bickering at, they had turned swiftly to their own, and Raminus began to see them more and more through the lens Nim had resentfully adopted. _Lethargic, myopic bureaucrats._ And he sat among their ranks, as slothful as the worst of them.

Talk of a traitor had somehow seeped from the council room and spread across the student body. He heard the chatter of rumors, idle gossip shared between classes, among the young mages that he passed in the halls. They reacted with affected gasps and masks of bravado, but they were all blissfully unaware of the true weight such allegations bore. For that Raminus was thankful. Times were dark enough for a young person in Cyrodiil without fear that the Guild was falling to ruin around them.

He thought of Nimileth. Perhaps Bruma had been her final straw. Perhaps she had exhausted her patience in dealing with the Council’s ineptitude. Did she run after Manimarco herself? Did she leave Cyrodiil altogether? He shook his head, that was too unlike her. She would never abandon her duties to the guild, not unless something was dreadfully wrong. He had to be overlooking something.

Raminus knew with terrible certainty that she was in great danger, but he had no way of contacting her and not the faintest clue of where she had gone. He had sent inquiry to Carahil, but the chapter-head knew just as much as he did; Family emergency. Date of return unknown.

He knew little of her family, had hardly thought to ask, and she certainly hadn’t offered up much information herself. It wasn’t until last month that he even knew she had living relatives in Cyrodiil. And then a thought came to him. Raminus rifled through his wastebasket for the discarded copy of _The Black Horse Courier _and flipped to the timetables of the upcoming arena matches. If it was truly a family emergency, he knew of at least one person who might be able to confirm it.

The following afternoon, Raminus made his way to the arena district and waited outside the colosseum for sign of the Grand Champion leaving the Bloodworks. He found himself standing beside a peculiar young bosmer with bright yellow hair piled into a cone atop his head. The boy quaked like an aspen leaf, and Raminus, finding himself greatly unnerved in the boy’s presence, made off for the Bloodworks under the guise of a hopeful combatant.

Inside, he spied Lorise sitting cross-legged on a pile of bedrolls. She had changed out of her raiment and was sharpening her blade on a whetstone while chatting with several other gladiators on the training room floor. Much of her visible skin was covered in a smattering of dried blood which Raminus should have expected given his knowledge of her victorious battle but was still very much unprepared to see. 

“Ms. Audenius?”

The woman looked up, her face swiftly brightening as she recognized him. “You! I know you! You’re Nim’s friend. Don’t tell me.” She squeezed her eyes shut in concentration and drummed her fist lightly against her head as she attempted to recall his name. “Oooh, I’m sorry. I can’t remember much in this cheese hole brain of mine. I took a beating from a minotaur’s club not two hours ago. Wizard, right? Master Wizard?”

“Actually,” he started with a nervous grin, “Raminus is the name I prefer.”

“Raminus, right! It was on the tip of my tongue. Are you here to join our ranks as a Pit Dog?” She asked. Her eyes glowed with alarming enthusiasm, a radiance he recognized whenever Nim spoke of the physiological effects of illusion magic. The gladiators surrounding them eyed Raminus with admittedly less interest.

“Umm… no,” he confessed much to her disappointment. “I’ve actually come looking for you. I was hoping I could ask you a rather sensitive question regarding one of our mutual acquaintances.”

Lorise’s smile fell as quickly as it had rose. She looked down to her blade and caught her warped reflection in the shine of its steel.

“Ah, sure,” she said and stood to her feet. “Let’s find a bit of privacy.”

Raminus followed as Lorise led him through the Bloodworks and into the red room. The smell of blood was so strong and sour that he felt his breakfast curdling in his stomach. Lorise paid him and his fearful glances no mind as she walked through the hallway painted by the smeared handprints of fallen combatants and led him up the ramp to the now empty arena.

She stopped in the stone archway, leaning against the wall with her back to the arena floor, and faced Raminus. “Alright. We can speak freely here.”

Standing before the deadliest woman in Cyrodiil at the gates of her championed killing field, Raminus could not quiet the peculiar sense of imminent danger that welled within him. He stammered a bit before he could manage to get anything coherent out.

“Have you- have you heard from Nim recently?”

Lorise picked at a hangnail and stared at the gravel below. “Hmm, why do you ask?”

“I’m awfully worried about her. She sent me a letter recently, something about a family emergency, and well, I can’t rid myself of the feeling that she’s in danger. She left no way to reach her, and all I want to know is that she’s safe. She’s your niece. I figured you would know if this situation meant she were in need of aide.”

“Oh my dear, dear boy,” Lorise cooed softly, her lower lip jutted forward into a pout. She placed a hand tenderly over her heart. Still covered in a thick layer of minotaur blood, Lorise looked at Raminus with soft, affectionate eyes which only served to further unnerve him.

“Have you heard from her?” He pressed on. “She’s loyal to a fault, as I’m sure you’re aware. I know first-hand that she often places her sense of civic duty and honor before her own well-being, and I just can’t believe she’d disappear so suddenly unless circumstances were dire.”

“They are dire,” Lorise admitted and felt a pang of guilt as she watched how the words fueled the fear in Raminus’ eyes. “But she’s safe. She’s a very capable young woman. I trust she has everything under control.” Lorise hoped those words were true. She prayed those words were true.

“Where is she? Can you tell me that at least?”

Lorise looked away with a hoarse breath. Not even she knew the answer to that. “I really shouldn’t say. It’s for Nim to explain when she gets back.”

“But does she need help? Please, if I can do anything—"

“Raminus,” Lorise interrupted. She studied the thinly guised panic streaked across his face. He wore worry so differently from Lucien, but the desperation in his voice struck the same. “Are the two of you—”

Raminus’ eyes went wide. “N-no,” he quickly blurted out though truthfully he was unsure what he was denying. “I only mean to say that I care for her quite deeply. I don’t know what I’d do if harm came to her.”

“I thought she only had eyes for Khajiits,” Lorise mumbled quietly to herself while squinting skeptically at the Imperial in front of her. “By Y’ffre, the things she doesn’t tell me.”

“I just want to know she’s safe,” he said, ignoring the heat rising in his face. “Please, I don’t mean to overstep.”

She offered him a gentle squeeze on the shoulder. “I have every reason to believe she will return to us soon. You’re not overstepping. I’m glad you came to me. Nim is lucky to have someone like you watching her back.”

Raminus didn’t believe a word of it. Time and time again, he found he had nothing to offer her but empty words and even emptier apologies. He believed it even in less coming from a woman as deadly as _The Butcher. _

“The feeling is quite mutual.” He sighed and gave a weak grin. It was hardly a satisfying explanation. In fact, it made him even more confused, but It was a dull comfort if nothing else to know that Lorise’s worries were minimal.

Or so she seemed to insist.

Raminus spent the rest of the remaining hours of light in the Arboretum, ruminating on this newfound information beneath a cracked and leafless cottonwood. When the frosted shroud of night fell over the sky, he began his walk back to the University, guided by the light of Masser and Secunda. He paused on the stone bridge of the City Isle and faced Lake Rumare. He thought of Nim’s letter and fished it out of his pocket so he could read it once more in the purple glow of the nearby brazier.

_…know that I am thinking of you every day. If you find yourself beneath the twin moons in full one evening, look up to the sky and think of me too. I will take comfort in knowing that we stand bathed in the same ray of light._

_Yours and only yours,_

_Nimileth._

* * *

Nim sat before the open window of her ducal quarters and watched as the sky lightened to the soft green haze of morning. A welcome breeze rolled through the twisting branches of a giant fungi tree and cooled her skin, damp with condensation that had collected on her morning stroll. The air was pungent with ripe alocasia and the earthy aroma of refined greenmote.

It was by all means a beautiful day in the Shivering Isles, but Nim felt like her stomach was rotting from the inside.

Across the room, Fathis sat at a desk strewn with plant clippings and mushroom caps. While he had happily assisted Nim in her quests toward becoming Sheogorath’s champion, his true pleasure came from documenting and describing the flora and fauna of the Shivering Isles in painstaking detail. Now that he had a more or less of a permanent residence in Nim’s room at the New Sheoth palace, he had set up a small alchemy lab to conduct experiments on the narcotic effects of greenmote and the alchemical properties of the unfamiliar vegetation he had collected on their expeditions.

A series of nervous sighs drew his attention away from the notes he was writing on aster bloom cores, and he looked up to find Nim leaning out the window with a look of pure dread. The powerless Staff of Sheogorath laid flat across her lap. She drummed her fingers across its length neurotically.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, setting his quill into the inkwell.

“What do you think?”

“Having second thoughts about accepting the throne of Madness?”

Nim gave him a sideways look and remained silent for a brief spell. “Why did I even agree to be the Duchess of Bliss? It was godless greed, I tell you.”

“So? That’s nothing new. Most of Tamriel’s nobility shares that trait. You're in good company.”

“But look where it’s gotten me,” she pouted. “I never sought to descend to godhood.”

Fathis smirked at her troubled expression. “I think you mean ‘ascend.’ It’s divinity after all.”

“No, I’m fairly certain it’s a descent in this case. From Duchess to Prince of Madness. That’s a long, winding downward spiral.” She turned to face him and draped an arm over the back of her chair. “You should be the Mad God then if it’s not such a big deal.”

“Why should I?” He chuckled softly, an impish grin twisting his lips. “You’ve been dabbling in Daedric Magic since you were a girl, and you’ve got a foot in Oblivion already.”

“Actually, Fathis, we are both standing in Oblivion as we speak,” she scowled. “I agreed to be Sheogorath’s champion, not to take his place.”

“Yet you didn’t shy away.”

Nim huffed and narrowed her eyes. Fathis looked back expectantly. It was true. When she made the first decision to aid Sheogorath, she paid little mind to the possibility of the dire consequences her actions would bring to her. Accepting the throne of Bliss was a knee-deep step into dangerous waters, and now she was wading up to her neck. And still the waters rose.

She hadn’t meant for the trek through the Shivering Isles to be this long of an excursion. All she had wanted was to slip away into a brief spell of hiding, but now weeks blurred into months. Or so she thought.

The air of the Shivering Isle left her in a heightened fugue state for most hours of the day, cripplingly anxious on the worst end, euphoric on the best. The dream-like bliss that would claim her reminded her of a memory from younger days, an accident while brewing skooma for the Renrijra Krin when the moonsugar sublimed into an intoxicating cloud of vapors. The incident left her hearing colors and incapacitated for two days, and she swore then and there that she would never sample her own product. Now Nim had lost track of how many days they had spent there long ago and wondered whether time even passed the same way as it did in the mortal plane of Tamriel.

“But Fathis, you’ve already got a few centuries under your belt,” she tried to reason with him. “Me, I’ve got barely two decades worth of experience to rule with. Besides, my soul has already been pledged to Mephala, and I doubt she’d take it kindly if I return saying _woops looks like I’m your Brother now._”

“It is a lot of power, isn’t it?” Fathis scratched the back of his head, his eyes growing distant with thought before he shook himself back to reality. “Absolutely not. I left Morrowind without building a Tel specifically because I didn’t want that kind of weight on my shoulders. I’m perfectly content with my position as Court Wizard. Anymore power would be gratuitous.”

Fathis turned his attention back to his notes. He picked up a piece of charcoal and began sketching an aster bloom into his drawing pad. Nim frowned at the response. She sat idly toying with the chain of her amulet, a new one she received after passing through the fringe. Haskill had called it the Charity of Madness. It seemed about as pleasant and innocuous of a name as Cruelty Heart.

“Power ruins me,” she said. “I don’t use it for anything good. I’m not meant to wield something so great. I know it.”

“That’s not what Sheogorath said,” Fathis countered, “and even if I wanted it, he did not choose me to sit on his throne. He chose you.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better, that the Daedric Prince of Madness chose me as his successor because he sees something he likes in this twisted brain?”

Fathis shrugged, his eyes focused intently on the sketch beneath his fingers. “He said you would have his power, but whether or not that turns you into a Daedric Prince is beyond any hope of speculation. Even Sheogorath was uncertain. Who knows? Maybe it’s just symbolic. At the end of the day, you headed the Madgod’s call and survived through every task he gave you. What did you honestly expect to happen?”

Nim shrunk back against her seat. The sickly feeling had returned, and the weight of the staff grew uncomfortable in her lap. She had brought all of this upon herself by following her own thirst for restricted knowledge, and few things were as forbidden as Daedric power after all.

She knew this. It was the same greed she had tried to avoid by refusing the Gray Fox’s cowl, the same greed that had seduced her into accepting a place in the Dark Brotherhood. Mephala laughed in the Spiral Skein. Nim had always known this to be her greatest vice, but Fathis’ unapologetic candor still stung.

Fathis glanced up and caught his breath when he saw Nim’s haunted eyes flickering between the room they shared and another plane of being. “That was rather callous of me, Nim. I’m not the one thrust into the reigns of Madness. Forgive me.”

“No,” she waved him off and sighed. “It’s true. My actions are undeserving of any sympathy. I sought out the Madgods favor and this is how I am rewarded. What else can I do, run back to Cyrodiil? No, my soul is damned already. Might as well see this descension to fruition and try to keep the people of the Realm alive. My greed has lead to too much destruction already. Sheogorath’s gone. The Knights of Order march on. I have a duty to protect the Shivering Isles now.” The purpose and conviction with which she spoke alarmed her. She felt a moral imperative to preserve the Realm but couldn't seem to recall when any seed of obligation had been sewn within her. “I mean, that’s what one does for their people, I suppose.”

“See,” Fathis said, gesturing toward her with his hand. He offered Nim a smile so brilliant and easy that she felt it belonged on stage. “You’ve got a natural inclination to serve your subjects. If it were me in your position, I’d find myself tempted to let Jyggalag have his way so that I could rebuild the Realm to my own liking from a clean slate. Of all the madmen that we’ve met, Sheogorath couldn’t have chosen a better one as a successor.”

Nim curled her lip, unsure of whether Fathis was trying to lighten the mood with a morbid joke or if he spoke sincerely. “At least you’ll come out of this unscathed. That brings me comfort.”

“It’s better than that. I entered that gate with a dear colleague of mine and will return with a Daedric Prince at my side. The Telvanni like to brag about having friends in high places. I’d like to see them try to one up me on this.”

Nim chuckled weakly. She gave a faint but sincere smile despite the nausea pooling in her stomach. This uneasiness would not serve her well in the tasks to come. In order to fulfill the ritual of ascension, she needed to take the Staff of Sheogorath to the Font of Madness and immerse it in the sacred pool where she would imbue it with the power it was intended to hold. And then she would use it to defeat Jyggalag and his forces.

_What utter nonsense, _she thought to herself. Surely she must be descending into madness if she believed for even a second that such an insignificant and unremarkable individual could defeat the Daedric Prince of Order. Turning back to the window, she trailed the bobbing path of a yellow songbird as it mounted favorable wind. It whistled freely through the air, singing loud and unapologetically, and Nim felt a sharp pang of envy.


	31. The Calm Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends. I'm posting two chapters tonight because IDK when I'll get around to writing the next one. I have ideas but no time to write currently.
> 
> Anyway thanks for reading :) Please drop a review or critique!

**Chapter 31: The Calm Before**

Few walked into Oblivion and came out unscathed. Everyone knew this, and despite not losing the structural integrity of her mind to madness, Nim was no exception. When she returned to Cyrodiil, she did so under the mantle of Sheogorath; to think this was to be her apotheosis was almost enough to drive her to insanity. Was she mortal? Was she Daedra? Other than a slight bronze from the godless sun of the Shivering Isles, she looked the same as when she had entered. She certainly didn’t feel imbued with power, but in her heart, she knew that something had changed.

But what exactly it was remained elusive.

To Nim’s staggering surprise, only two months had passed in Cyrodiil since she had left it. She was certain that she had spent more time than that in the Fringe alone. Though Fathis had refused to let her return home to Anvil until he was certain that she was in as good of health as a Deadric Prince could be, Nim had managed to sneak out of the castle one evening. She needed to make her way down to Deepscorn Hollow, to see if Lorise had left her a message, to know that her family was safe. She had travelled all night to reach the mouth of the Topal Bay. There amongst the driftwood and rotting kelp, she dove beneath the cool waters and found a door inside of a hollowed out tree trunk that lead her to the entrance of Deepscorn Hollow.

A green ribbon had been tied to the handle on the other side.

Did this mean the sanctuary had been purified? Did this mean the rite had been abandoned? There was no way to be certain until she found Lorise and heard the explanation herself.

But for now, Nim sat in Fathis’ private quarters with a cup of lavender tea as the Dunmer waved a finger in front of her eyes. She followed it, looking up, to the side, back down again. He palpated her neck, pricked her finger, listened to her breathing. She bled red blood, breathed deep and clearly. Her resting heart rate was fifty beats per minute. All was normal, whatever that meant anyway.

“Well?” Nim looked up at him with eager eyes and sucked the droplet of blood off her index finger. “What’s the verdict?”

Fathis shrugged. “If you are Daedra, you’re not giving me any telling signs to work with.”

“Maybe I’m not.”

“Jyggalag said you’d grow into your station. I’d imagine a transformation like that takes time. Now is there anything else I can do for you, My Lord?”

Nim groaned loudly, slipping off the edge of his desk and into the nearby seat. “Ugh, don’t you dare call me that. You sound just like Haskill.”

“I rather appreciated his dry sense of humor. I’ll miss him in a way.”

“Then I’ll open the door for you if you really want to go back and visit. I’ll make you a duke in your own right and give you full reign of Bliss.”

“Later,” he said with a coy smile. “For now, it’s good to be home. I never thought I’d take comfort in the dullness of castle patronage.”

Nim tugged on a pair of wool socks and laced up her boots as though getting ready for any other day as mortal women of Tamriel are apt to do. She was ready to move on from this cursed chapter of her life, but it felt strange to part from Fathis after spending such an intimate journey with him at her side. What would it be like to find herself alone again? A bittersweet ache of anticipation bloomed in her chest.

Fathis noticed her face growing pensive and poured himself another cup of tea. He leaned against the table beside her as he sipped. “You know that I don’t mind if you want to stay here longer. We can work on the manuscript together, and there are plenty of experiments to conduct with the samples we’ve brought back. I’ll give you full run of the tower. You’d be plenty busy should you still need to hide from those responsibilities.”

“No, it’s time I see them through,” she replied and stood to her feet. “But thank you.” She wrapped Fathis in a tight embrace and spoke into the crook of his neck. “I’ll take the chapters on Gnarls and Scalons. The blister pods too. Send me the first draft of your chapters when you complete them, and I’ll send you mine. And don’t you dare touch my notes on Void essence. If anyone in the Mages Guild finds out we made flesh atronachs, we’d be booted out for necromancy faster than a sailor’s spit travelling in the wind.”

“I’m not an idiot, thank you,” Fathis tease, “and I appreciate your confidence in my judgment.” Nim pulled away and grabbed her pack off the floor, sighing as she slung it onto her shoulder. He watched her carefully, noted the worry etched around her eyes. “Are you sure you’ll be fine assimilating back into the mortal plane?”

“I don’t know what I’ll be. I’ll be alive, and that’s better than the alternative.”

“And where will you go next? Apocrypha?”

“Back to the University,” she replied, “It might just be the closest thing to Apocrypha in this realm.”

Fathis snorted. “That’s a poor man’s substitution.”

“Yes well, at least the Council is not as powerful as Hermaeus Mora. I didn’t exactly leave with their blessing, and I’m not sure whether the Council will have been pleased or angered by my absence.”

She thought of Raminus with a pang in her heart, how badly she wished she could explain it all to him while knowing she never could. She was a thief, a murderer, and now the Prince of Madness, but he saw her as none of those things. And he never would. She’d keel over into the Bravil canals before she told him. He saw her as someone worthy of protection and compassion, as someone worthy of his own affection. She thought of Raminus, and guilt twisted though her gut like a dagger carving its way through.

Fathis took her arm in his and led her through the castle and out in the cool, stale Nibenese air. It was Evening Star and the first day of winter was only a few weeks away. For a town as soggy as it was, even Bravil had weather, and the nip of the sporadic breeze felt alien against their skin which had become soft and accustomed to the perpetual humidity of the Shivering Isles. They walked in silence to the city gates, and a strange lament ripened between them with each step that drew them closer to departure.

“You know where to find me, Nim. Whatever hole you dig yourself into, remember that my doors are open.”

Nim stifled a chuckle. “I can’t believe you’re not sick of me yet.”

“Nonsense. You’d pick the lock even if I tried to shut you out. I might as well enjoy your company if you force it upon me.” Fathis placed a gentle kiss on her cheek, and she grinned back, her eyes shining with indefinable gratitude “You’re the strangest creature I’ve ever met, did you know that? And I’ve met many a strange thing in my days.”

Leaving Bravil, Nim made her way north to the Imperial City where she knew she could find Lorise without the risk of running into a member of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary. At least she hoped she would find her.

What if something worse had happened while she had been away? How much worse exactly seemed unknowable to Nim, but she had refused an order from the Black Hand itself and doubted such transgressions went without punishment. Lucien now knew exactly how much Nim was willing to risk to keep Lorise safe, and this, she imagined, could be very dangerous knowledge. Sentimentality was a disadvantage in an occupation as high risk as theirs and loved ones often made for poignant leverage.

It was a horrid thought that made her heart clench, but she held faith that what she had found in Deepscorn Hollow also meant safety for Lorise and Vicente. Maybe this meant that their murderous little lives could go back to the same warped dimensions of normal. Maybe they could make that trip up to Dagerfall in the spring like Vicente had promised.

And what exactly did this mean for her? Nim felt the knot in her chest tighten. Purification or not, she was still Lucien’s Silencer, and she had bargained with him for Lorise’s safety. She had made promises to him in a time of desperation, promises he would undoubtedly come to collect.

* * *

Afternoon sun shone through the rolling clouds over the Imperial City, and for this Raminus was grateful. It had been a dreadfully cold, grey morning and the thought of lecturing in the garden amphitheater sent a chill down into the marrow of his bones. He took his place at the podium and squinted into the gold light that obscured the faces in the audience as the last of his students found their seats.

He was halfway through his lecture on feather spells and burdening curses when he saw a vaguely Nimileth-shaped creature exit through the door of the Archmage’s lobby. His eyes snapped toward it, and sunrays seared across his retinas. On any other day he would have turned away, closed his eyes for fear of blinding himself in the light, but he stared on despite his vision rendering only one bright amorphous glow.

She did not reappear. A student raised his hand. Raminus did not see it as he prattled on about the differences in the effects of burdening curses and ones of drain fatigue. Only when the student cleared his throat and called out to Raminus did he pry his unseeing eyes away and blink the white spots from his vision.

He wondered if he was going crazy, seeing things not there as crazy people are ought to do, but he continued on with his lecture, the worry eased by the fact that he had no familial history of dementia and thus the chances of him truly loosing grip of reality due to the neurodegenerative disease were slim. More likely this was a case of Witbane or Brainrot that he had picked up from petting a stray dog on his latest trip into the city. Or even more likely, he had stayed up too late last night reading the fifth volume of _The Real Barenziah_ and was now suffering the consequences.

Hours later, his teaching over, Raminus made his way to his private quarters. Magnus was well into its descent, and a dark grey twilight spread above the Imperial city. He gazed skyward and quickened his pace. The large clouds that had been gathering in the eastern Valus mountains now looked promising of western encroachment, and with them blew a strong, icy wind.

After a long evening of mindless administrative duties, the memory of his afternoon mirage flickered like a distant candle flame at the back of his mind. He entered the living quarters. She was safe, Lorise had said so. She was safe and there was nothing he could do about the fact whether it was true or not. His stomach knotted and instead, he focused on the comforts of his bedroom, the silk covers against his skin, the leather binding of a new book in his hands, and the rain streaked window clouded with fog.

Reaching for the doorknob, Raminus was so enthralled by his vision of a quiet night to himself that he hardly noticed the small woman sitting down the hall from his bedroom door.

“Hey.” He heard a small voice call out, and his breath stuck in his throat.

Raminus glanced over his shoulder and found Nim sitting cross legged on the bench staring up at him. She stood to her feet as soon as he turned to face her. She looked the same to him as ever. Two legs, two arms, two eyes, and a healthy dusting of dirt on her trousers. She walked toward him, taking small cautious steps as she scratched the inside of her wrist.

“You left it unlocked, you know,” she said, gesturing at the door.

Raminus replied with a series of rapid blinks, his hand still on the door knob, and Nim gave a guilty, crooked smile as she inched her way forward. She stopped beside Raminus, her back to the wall.

“You’re looking at me as though you’ve just seen a ghost,” she chuckled nervously. “It’s only been two months. You didn’t really think I’d gone and got myself killed, did you?”

“You left so suddenly,” he finally managed. “I thought perhaps something was wrong.”

“Didn’t you get my letter?”

“I did.”

Nim quirked a brow. “Then... what’s the problem?”

Raminus gave a soft sigh and glanced around the empty hallway. Nim followed his stare and was surprised when he opened his door and motioned for her to enter. When she did, she found herself standing in an elegantly furnished bedroom of dark mahogany and silk tapestries. Along the near wall stood bookcases so tall a step stool was needed to reach the very top shelf, and the desk against the window was littered by stacks upon stacks of curled scrolls and loose paper. She stepped further inside, eyes flickering quickly from corner to corner. There was little that she could see of personal affections aside from a few scattered rocks and polished gemstones lining a nearby shelf. A reading nook of cushioned chairs and a low coffee table was set up in the center of the room and a small family portrait sat in a gold frame on the end table. Despite wanting to take a closer look, Nim turned around and waited as Raminus closed the door behind him.

“Well?” he said expectantly, thrusting his hands into his pockets and leaning back against the wall.

“Well what?”

“Nim, you disappeared for two months with little to no explanation. What happened? Where were you?”

Nim shook her head, eyes closed as she spoke. “I’m back. It won’t make any sense if I try and explain where I’ve gone.”

“Then explain it clearly and I’ll ask for extra clarification if I need it. You said it was a family emergency.”

“It was.”

He shot her an unamused look. “You can start explaining from there then.”

“Raminus, I can’t say,” she pouted. “It just won’t make sense. I’m back now. Things are normal again. Isn’t that what matters?” But the fretful stare he was now giving her suggested it would not be enough.

“Please, Nim. I was so certain you were in trouble.”

“I—" Nim rocked back on her heels, opening and closing her mouth as she debated how to explain away her absence. “Well, if you must know, Lorise was in trouble. She was in trouble, and only I could get her out of it.”

Raminus furrowed his brow, his expression a mix of concern and growing frustration. “ I spoke with Lorise while you were away.”

"Why?” she blurted out, and the urgency in her voice alarmed him greatly. “Where is she? Is she alright? What did she say?”

“Why,” he repeated. “Because you said it was a family emergency. I thought you were in danger, and she is the only member of your family that I know personally. I thought something terrible had happened to you. I only wanted to find out if you were safe.”

“But I wasn’t the one in danger.”

Raminus’ stare grew slightly sharper. “How was I supposed to know? Your letter didn’t explain how grave a predicament you found yourself in. And by the way, Lorise was going about her business as normal and didn’t look the least bit concerned for her own safety.” In fact, he distinctly remembered the woman covered in minotaur’s blood as though it were a second skin.

“I am telling you the truth,” Nim insisted. “Someone wanted to hurt her. Worse, they wanted her dead! I had to take care of it, Raminus. I had to! If they had suspected Lorise was aware of the plan, they would have tried to kill her much sooner. And so she had to continue on with her life as normally as she could while I worked to neutralize the threat.”

“But who is _they_? What was the threat?”

“It doesn’t matter now,” she said, shaking her head firmly. “It’s over.”

Raminus shifted his weight and crossed his arms over his chest. He looked narrowly at Nim, his lips twisting in frustration. “So you’re saying that the Grand Champion herself was being threatened by some malicious, unnamed entity and only her niece, a woman less than half her size, could keep her safe?” He stared incredulously as she nodded with fervent eagerness. Raminus sighed. “You must understand why this sounds like fabrication?”

“Raminus, but it’s not! I know I am being vague. I am not proud of the things I have done, and if you knew them, you would--“

“You don’t know how I would react,” he said. “You simply don’t.”

There was an unfamiliar edge to his voice that Nim could not quite place. It was resolute and harsh but not without sympathy, and she felt so small beneath it. “I made a… negotiation to secure Lorise’s safety,” she said softly, scratching again at the inside of her wrist. “I struck a deal with bad people. The worst kind of people. I don’t want you to know these things, Raminus. It isn’t safe.”

“And now?” he asked. “Is Lorise safe? Are you safe? How can you be certain?”

“I wouldn’t come back if we weren’t safe,” she assured him. “Don’t you see? I had to leave so that I could come back.”

Raiminus muttered something incomprehensible under his breath as he palmed his forehead. “Nim, this makes no sense at all.”

Nim responded with a frustrated groan and threw her hands up into the air. “I told you it wouldn’t!”

“Why must you be so vague? Why can’t I know the details of what happened?”

“Because if I told you all the gory details, you’d never speak with me again.”

“And why should I continue speaking with you now? Lying by omission is still lying. I know you haven’t been honest with me.”

“Fine, perhaps you shouldn’t then,” she replied sternly, irritation punctuating every word. “Tell me to leave and I will.”

Raminus frowned a small guilty frown as he scratched at the back of his head. “I didn’t mean it that way,” he said and walked further into the room, resting his weight against the back of a reading chair as he squeezed the soft velvet cushion beneath his palms. “I want you to stay.”

Nim’s heart skittered in her chest as she met the genuine expression of contrition glistening back at her. Lying to him felt like wringing out her insides, but how could she ever tell him the truth? Raminus stared at her, mouth crooked and eyes heavy with concern. She looked away from him for a brief moment and tugged absently on the chain of her amulet before smiling faintly. It was a muted smile made softer by the sorrow in her eyes. She shuffled across the room to where he stood and wrapped her arms around his chest, sinking into his own unexpecting arms.

“Good,” she whispered, and felt a warmth flush across her cheeks as she drifted deeper into the weight of him. “Me too.”

Raminus held her stiffly at first and then eased into a gentle embrace. It was strange, being this close to one another without either feeling the impulse to flinch away in fear of making the other uncomfortable. He squeezed affectionately on her shoulder and heard her sigh softly into the fabric of his robes. She looked up at him, cheeks coraled with blush, and he smoothed the hair over her ear. Her smile deepened, eyes growing brighter, and when she stood to her tiptoes to place a small, chaste kiss on his lips, Raminus drew her closer.

“I missed you,” she said and kissed him again, slower and more deeply than before. “What I said in my letter, I meant it. I thought of you every day.”

Raminus broke the kiss and held her face in both his hands, pressing his forehead against hers. “Nim, you can’t just vanish and reappear and pretend that nothing happened. We aren’t done here.”

“No?” 

“How do I know that you’re not in danger?”

“Because I told you that I am not. Why can’t you just believe me? I can take care of myself, Raminus. I’m not as fragile as you think I am. You know this. Please stop treating me as though I’m made of glass.”

“If you were made of glass, then at least I’d be able to see through you. Sometimes I feel like you’ve been concealing half of your life from me. How well do I truly know you? It makes me feel like a stranger, and I hate it.”

“You know enough,” Nim said and pulled away sooner than Raminus would have preferred. “I have something for you, by the way.” She fished into the buttoned pocket of her trousers and pulled out a smooth oblong orb, gold and translucent in complexion. “It’s fossilized amber. I know it’s not a mineral, but it’s kind of like one, right? It’s hard, and it’s pleasing to look at. I thought you might like it.”

She placed it into Raminus’ palm and watched as he rolled it about with his thumb. His eyes widened for a moment, sparkling with innocent curiosity. He held it below the overhanging brazier where he could see small bubbles of air and scraps of tree bark embedded inside the resin. It glowed like summer sun setting the evening ablaze in its descent. 

“It’s lovely,” he said softly, watching the play of light as it curved around the edges of the amber. “Where did you find this?”

“On my travels. I had it polished down. I found a couple that had insects inside them, but I wasn’t sure if that was your cup of tea.”

“Well, I’m no entomologist, but I’ve always been keen on beetles.”

“Oh, I should have brought some then. They aren’t beetles but--”

“Nim, this one is beautiful. I am happy to have it,” he chuckled and walked toward his shelves to find a padded case to set it in. “It’s a very thoughtful gesture.”

Nim rolled her lips inward, watching as he left. “I think of you often.”

With his back turned to her, Raminus smiled. His heart fluttered, soft like dusted moth wings beating inside his chest. He wished he could say those words to her, for it was true. He thought of her most regularly, but they were anxious, fevered thoughts and he sensed he had shared enough of them already.

“When did you get back?” he asked instead.

“Loredas, I think. I’m staying in the Talos Plaza until Lorise is back in the city. I haven’t even gone home yet. All my plants are probably, dead and Carahil’s going to have a fit when she learns how behind I am on my training regime.”

“Oh, your sudden leave of absence is the last of her concerns, I’m sure,” he said absently as he set his amber inside the small display case where he kept his polished gemstones and jewels.

“What do you mean?” Nim asked, her voice apprehensive. “What happened while I was away?”

Raminus felt his stomach drop a few inches and shook his head to clear it. Things had soured fast in the time Nim had gone, and though it was a heavy conversation that needed to be had, it meant whatever tender moment they had just shared was now pushed into the realm of grim reality.

“Perhaps you should sit down. I’m afraid the Council has all but disbanded in the time since you have left. We’re short two members now. Traven is insistent on filling them quickly.”

Nim gasped audibly. Shock spread across her face and just as quickly twisted into gnarled confusion. “I-I don’t understand. Who is gone? Were they expelled? Are they… are they dead?” 

Raminus gave her a small frown. “Would you prefer the truncated version or to hear the whole messy ordeal?”

“Do you really need to ask?”

And so Raminus relayed the news of the dissolution of the Council in all its sordid glory. They talked for several hours, until Magnus disappeared completely below the horizon and the sky became a starless black shroud that eclipsed the small window of his bedroom. By now the storm clouds had moved west, and a needle-thin drizzle pelted the glass pane of his bedroom window and stippled against the copper tiles of the roof.

On his request to make herself comfortable, Nim had removed her boots and flopped down belly first onto his bed. She sprawled out on his covers, holey socks, dirty travel clothes, and all. It was a scandalously unprofessional sight should anyone see them together, and Raminus admittedly found it highly distracting. He paced across the room, occupying himself with tidying up his desk as he spoke.

“They’ve gone off the deep end!” Nim nearly shouted, bouncing her foot anxiously over the edge of the bed. “I knew it was going to get worse, but I didn’t think both Irlav and Caranya would leave. I was under the impression that they were perfectly fine sitting on their asses. I didn’t truly think they would turn on Traven unless one of them was a traitor.”

Raminus brushed his hair back and sighed. “Traitor or not, the signs of unrest were there when we last met to discuss the incident in Bruma. Neither could agree on any motion we put forth on how to attack Manimarco, and so they fled with several artifacts to try and stop him on their own.”

“Where could they have gone?”

“We’ve been tracking them down for the past month. I think we have a good idea of where to look. Traven will want you to speak with him at your earliest convenience. He’ll be glad to know you’ve returned.”

“Really?” Nim asked, her voice pitching. “I was sure he found me terribly disrespectful.”

Raminus shrugged. “Perhaps he does. That doesn’t mean he can’t see the value you bring to the guild. He’ll want your input.”

“My input? When has he ever wanted that?” she said in disbelief, her facing souring. Raminus opened his mouth to defend the Archmage but she waved her hands quickly to cut him off. “Nevermind. Don’t answer that. His own Council deserted him. His closest advisors! I’m sure he has enough to worry about without my ill-temper thrown into the mix. You can let him know I’ll meet with him tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Raminus asked, arching a brow. “Don’t you have… business to attend to?”

“This is my business too, isn’t it?” She hopped down from his bed, and he watched with a dull, wistful pang as she slipped into her boots and began tying her laces. “But speaking of, it’s getting awfully late. I shouldn't keep you any longer from your work.”

"Well, um-" Raminus glanced at the file on his desk that was filled with midterm papers for grading. Though most instructing mages hated this part of teaching classes, Raminus rather enjoyed it. It was exciting to read through the carefully crafted essays and see how much his students had learned over the quarter. And even when the student wasn't particularly bright or well-disciplined, he got a kick out of the creative lengths they would undergo to meet the page requirement. Right now, however, Raminus could thing of a hundred preferable activities to grading papers, several of which included Nim. Shaking the indecent thoughts from his mind, Raminus cleared his throat, hoping his cheeks did not look as red as they felt. “I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow, won’t I?”

“Midmorning?” Nim suggested, lifting her arms above her head and stretching backwards with a yawn. “Maybe we can have tea together.”

“Sure.”

She stood there quietly staring at Raminus and the stack of papers he clenched in his fists, wondering if he was going to walk her out or if she was too see herself to the door. After a few prolonged seconds of eye contact, he looked around his room anxiously, collated his papers, and straightened them against the surface of his desks before searching for a clear drawer in which to store them. He looked up again, and finding his hands free, he buried his now empty fists into his pockets.

“Nim, I… are you ever going to tell me about what happened these past two months?”

She shook her head in response, paused, and then shrugged.

“There’s so much that I don’t know about you. I can’t stand it,” he said, hanging his head low and giving it small shake. “I am always worrying about you, Nimileth. I’m going to give myself an ulcer. It isn’t fair.”

“I’m sorry,” she eked out. “I don’t know you as well as I would like to either. I worry about you too.”

Raminus chuckled weakly. “What danger could I possibly face here? A papercut from all the useless reports I write to fulfill my role as the University’s highest ranked bureaucrat?”

“I worry about you worrying about me and giving yourself an ulcer. Or maybe the stress will make you go bald prematurely.”

Raminus brushed a hand through his dark hair and though no loose strands were pulled away, he frowned all the same. “It just might.”

A strained silence followed, interrupted only by the light shower of rain streaking across the glass behind him.

“Walk me out?” Nim gestured to the door with a nod of her head, and when they reached it, she paused, pulling at his sleeve. “I’m back now,” she said and looked up at him, apologetic eyes shimmering. “I won’t leave again.”

Raminus welcomed her as she reached up and drew him into a warm, lingering kiss. She slid her arms around his neck, and he felt her lashes brush against his cheeks as they fluttered closed.

“Godsblood, Nim, I was beside myself with worry when you left. I asked all over for you. You can’t do that to me again.”

“I really am sorry," she mumbled against his lips.

“You can talk to me.”

“I know I can, Raminus. It’s easier not to sometimes.”

He held onto her shoulders as she lowered her heels to the ground. The concerned, troubled expression had returned to his face, and for that, Nim felt a familiar guilt gnawing in the pit of her belly. She offered him a rueful, little smile, and he pulled her closer still.

“I just wish I understood why you do these things,” he said.

Nim leaned her forehead against his chest and squeezed him tightly. “I told you. I had to leave so that I could return.”


	32. The Only One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I don’t know man. *TW* for extremely dubious consent (like very extremely) with a healthy sprinkling of violence (like very healthy). A bit more explicit than other scenes. If that's troublesome, read up until the inn room and then skip to the end scene. It’s a Lucien/Nim chapter so um, I’ll leave this warning here.
> 
> I swear the next chapter will have some actual plot-moving action in it.

**Chapter 32: The Only One**

Lucien had not seen her in two months. He had searched Anvil. He had searched the Imperial City. Even that little house in the woods south of Chorrol, where she had spent the night while running from his attempts to recruit her.

Not a trace.

Many of the Black Hand pinned her for dead, prodded Lucien into taking a new Silencer and carrying out the Purification himself. Though he didn’t deny it, he didn’t dissuade them from the belief for it was easier than telling them the truth. He knew they were wrong and that she was alive. She was in hiding. He would find her.

On some days, when he found himself alone with too much drink clouding his mind, he thought of the last time they were together, her tears cool against his skin and her blood warm on his lips. The last words she had said to him burned like strong brandy on his tongue –

_To the edges of Oblivion if it takes me away from you._

She had vanished into the air one night and with her fled a piece of Lucien’s sanity. He trailed her likeness though crowded city streets, stalking after ochre-skinned women with russet hair but none of them were his Silencer. Some days he’d find himself standing amidst the flowing sea of people, still as stone as they jostled against his shoulder and rifled through his empty pockets. Some days he swore he heard her lilting voice like molten silver laughing at him from the narrow passages of the alleyway, haunting him.

But if she was there, he found not even a shadow of her presence, and so he laid alone in Fort Farragut with the memory of her body next to him and the scent of blackberries and road dust like a cloying miasma in the air.

On some nights, she would come to him, a dancing vision that swayed before his bed with a familiar, cruel smile on the curve of her lips. In his dreams, she reeked of fresh slaughter, the scent of blood so thick that he tasted iron on his tongue. He would give chase as she dissipated before him. He would race out of his fort and through the dark woods of his dreamscape where the blur of green leaves melted away into the blackness of night as she burrowed further and further into the heart of the forest.

In some dreams, he would catch her, pin her down and take her there on a bed of crushed heather. Sometimes he would strangle her, hands pressing a necklace of red fingerprints into her throat.

But more often than any other, he would reach and reach, and she would slip through his hands like smoke twisting skyward. She would vanish again leaving him stranded amidst the pines in the swallowing darkness of the Heartlands. And still he sprinted endlessly.

In the morning he would wake breathless, her name on his lips, and he called to it, cursed it, spat it out until he couldn’t remember the last word he had spoken if not her name in hundredth iteration.

And then on one unremarkable day, there she was again. Lucien found himself down in Bravil as his usual schedule permitted. He was securing contracts from Ungolim and had stopped to pay respects to the Night Mother’s crypt when he saw her sipping tea on the shaded porch of Silverhome on the Water. After ensuring that he was not dreaming, Lucien wasted no time in concealing himself and watched as she was joined by a finely dressed Dunmer companion. They shared a brisk afternoon of familiar jokes and warm laughter before making their way across the bridge to Castle Bravil. Lucien followed in her footsteps, always watching from afar. She was there in the flesh, no longer the ever-dimming shadow he chased in his sleep. He waited two more days to catch sight of her again.

When he did, Lucien followed her north to the Imperial City, stalking like a shadow from the forest edges and hugging the walls of the city streets. She made her way to the Talos Plaza, and he was surprise to watch her check into the Tiber Septim Hotel. Quite a stark difference in spending habits from when he first trailed her prior to recruitment, he noted. What had she been doing in those past months? The Dunmer man? Had he been showing her another way life?

She made her way upstairs and shrugged off her belongings, but she didn’t stay despite the long journey. Instead, she walked across the city and through the gates of the Arcane University. Lucien waited below the city isle bridge with the patience of a dead man. A cold wind kissed his skin in the failing light of Magnus, but still he waited. Rain fell, first like a fine mist and then sharp and pointed like hundreds of little needles. Still, he waited.

At last she crossed the isle bridge and wound her way through the Arboretum. Lucien trailed her back to the hotel, and when the witching hour of night swept across the shrouded sky, he picked the lock on her room, found her sleeping blissfully unaware of his presence. It was unlike her to be so oblivious. How could she have grown so soft and careless so quickly? Softness had no place in the role of a Silencer, and hot blood pulsed through his veins.

He stepped closer and the wood planks beneath his feet creaked. She shifted beneath her covers. Lucien backed into the darkest corner of the small room and watched as the figure grumbled and rolled about as though waking from the deep recess of a dream.

* * *

Nim opened her eyes, blinking the sleep from them as she became aware of a sudden heaviness in the room that warned of violated solitude. She bolted up in her bed, the hairs at the nape of her neck prickling. A primal fear awakened her to alarmed consciousness but only the sound of heavy rain and distant rumbling called back from beyond the window above her bed. Entertaining the paranoia, she scanned the room for any obvious signs of intruders and found it empty. She readied a detect life spell, but before she could cast it, a strange ripple across the darkness of the far wall caught her eye. Undeniably, she had seen something move in her periphery.

“I can see you,” she called out to the amorphous shadow in the corner.

The shadow chuckled.

“Lucien?”

“I can never slip past you, can I? How anticlimactic.” He moved away from the wall, dropping his chameleon shroud, and stepped into the center of the room. Nim pulled her blanket higher, covering what little was revealed through the sheer fabric of her night clothes, and Lucien clucked his tongue. “Since when have you been one for modesty? Don’t think I’ve forgotten what you look like.”

He moved swiftly toward her and climbed atop the bed. The mattress dipped beneath the new weight, and Nim scooted against the headboard reflexively, pulling her legs up to her chest to put distance between them.

“You ever knock?” she asked and cleared the stiffness from her voice. A seed of panic rose in her stomach as she met Lucien’s eyes. Illuminated by the moonlight spilling in from the window above, they glowed like shards of polished garnet. He wasn’t smiling like his playful tone had suggested. His brow was furrowed, focused. She had never seen such a hungry look on a man before.

He gripped her ankle firmly and pressed fingernails into flesh. She suppressed a wince of pain and felt a spike of fear ram against the inside of her ribcage. Lucien stared into her with the sharpness of a freshly whetted blade.

“So…” she eked out, “does the assignment still stand?”

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t cleave your head from your neck and throw you to the bottom of Lake Rumare.”

“I did only what I said I would,” she replied, bolder than she had any right to be given the terror flooding through her. She tugged on her leg, attempting to pry it out his piercing grip.

“But I’ve found you. I told you I would.”

“I came back to learn what has become of our Sanctuary.”

“No,” he leered at her and leaned forward. His knees sunk into the soft mattress. “You returned to fulfill your role as my Silencer. You came back to _me_.”

Nim gave him a lazy smile. It was a dangerous move, but it crept onto her face as though reflex. “If that’s what you’d like to believe, Speaker, it will be so.”

“You should be more grateful that I did not send you to Sithis the moment I saw you in Bravil.”

“Bravil?” she asked, her smirk falling.

“Don’t try to deny anything. If you’ve not come to fulfill your orders, then you will take your final breath at the end of my blade. You understand this, don’t you?”

Nim’s ragged breath blew wisps of hair from her eyes, but she held her face expressionless despite the anticipation thundering in her heart. She rolled her lips inward and nodded, her gaze flitting over him glassy and vacant.

“Good.” Lucien crawled forward, moving further into the moonlight. His hair hung loose, wet and unkempt around his neck. Droplets of rainwater gathered at the ends and fell onto the sheets beside her. Dark scruff shadowed the lower half of his face, and a red scar marked his upper cheek looking angry and painfully fresh.

“By the Gods, you look awful,” Nim whispered and reached out to trace the length of the scar with the pads of her fingers. “What happened?”

Lucien felt a fist clench in his chest. After months of searching, she met his skin with a graze so airy and fine, so barely there it felt like the thread from which his dreams had been woven. She lay beneath him, chemise slipping down her shoulder revealing skin too bronzed and sun-spotted to be explained by the dawning winter. Her fingers whispered a trail down his face and stopped at his lips which were dry and parted and waiting for her. Silence stretched between them and grew brittle as is it filled with shallow, anxious breaths and the moonlight shining off his eyes. Lucien leaned into the touch, and as he did so, she froze. She held his cheek there in her palm, her hand now rigid with uncertainty.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “did you miss me?”

Nim blinked, her face contorting in a moment of disbelief, and then the corner of her mouth twitched as she suppressed a little smirk. She hid it well, biting down on her lips, but her eyes laughed unapologetically. She tugged at her leg again in a fruitless effort to free herself from his grasp. Lucien felt the red glow of hot coals smolder in the pit of his stomach. The taste of ashes grew acrid on his tongue.

“What has become of Lorise?” Nim asked. She drew her hand away from him, but Lucien grabbed her wrist before she could return it to her side. A humorless grin stretched across his mouth.

“I asked you a question.”

She shuddered and a ripple of fear revealed the whites of her eyes. “Lucien, what have you done to her?” She pulled back on her wrist, wriggling beneath him, but his smile only deepened.

In one swift movement, Lucien sat back on his knees and dragged Nim to the foot of the bed. A small yelp escaped her as she gripped the edge of the headboard and kicked against his arms, but he fought her off and she stilled. He ripped the blankets from the bed and slid an arm underneath her back, lifting her against his chest and drawing the hair away from her face.

“Answer me,” he whispered. His free hand travelled under her chemise and climbed up her spine. It was cool and damp and sent a shiver through her. She tensed in his arms, her head hanging backward as she stared at the wooden beams of the ceiling.

“I did not.”

“You’re lying,” he hissed.

“I’m not.”

The sting of Lucien’s palm seared across her cheek, drawing from her a silent gasp. Without thinking, she forced her right leg upward, kneeing Lucien square in his jaw, and she heard his teeth pound together as he recoiled from the impact. Quickly and on instinct, she wriggled herself out of his clutches and threw an invisibility spell around her, finding just enough time to roll off the bed before Lucien lunged forward. She tucked herself away beneath the bedframe and watched with bated breath as the Speakers boots hit the floorboards. The room was small. There were only so many places he could look before he found her.

As silently as she could, Nim rolled out from under the bedframe and crept along the perimeter of the room. Above the bed was a meshed window, but it was too high off the ground and too narrow to allow for a quick and safe escape. To her right and several paces away was the door. Lucien stood at the foot of the bed, a mere three feet away from the exit, and though he faced her direction, she couldn’t make out what his eyes were focused on through the darkness. A plan came swiftly to mind; if she used her telekinesis to cause a distraction, she might be able to sprint out. She sucked in a silent, whimpering breath. It was the only plan she had time to act on.

Nim inched her way along the wall until she felt close enough to make her move. With a wave of her hand, she launched her boot into the air, hurling it across the far wall as she dashed for the door. But Lucien was not fooled. He caught her by the shoulders and slammed the door shut before swinging her into the wall beside it.

Her head slammed against the wood so hard it left her dizzy, and blood bloomed across the inside of her mouth, her tongue stinging from where she had bit into it. Lucien squeezed on her jaw in one hand and forced her to face him.

“Don’t you run away from me again,” he said, taunting, a growl rising from his throat. Nim closed her eyes and tried to turn her head away but Lucien held it firmly in place.

“Look at me,” he demanded.

She screwed her eyes shut.

“Look at me.” He squeezed tighter, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of her cheek until he could feel her teeth grinding together. She blinked open, vision blurred by beads of tears that sprung from the pain of her throbbing head. “Where have you been?”

“I told you exactly where I would go,” she said through gritted blood-stained teeth.

“Who is he? Who is the other man you’ve been whoring around with?”

Nim felt her stomach turn, and her heart hitched, driving a frantic beat up into her throat where it blocked any words from escaping. How could he know about Raminus? How long had he known?

“Don’t try to play stupid with me,” he growled. “I saw you in Bravil with that Dunmer. Where did he take you?”

Nim kept her lips sealed and twisted in his grasp. Small relief it was to know that he was not aware of her relationship with the Master Wizard, but what would Lucien do to Fathis if he knew they had been together all this time? What would he do to her?

“Tell me, Nimileth.” Her name burned like hot iron in his throat and he watched as her eyes darted across the room and settled on the window above the bed. The fire in him spat and hissed, and he shook her as though trying to shake the very thought of leaving him from her mind.

Her head knocked against the wall again, her vision fading against the pounding pain. She recovered with a sluggish groan and rolled her head about her shoulders paying no mind to the neckline of her shift slipping down. The shimmer of the amulet around her neck caught Lucien's eyes, and he saw immediately that it was not his. An ornate gold talisman lined with ruby insets rested against her chest. He picked it up by the pendant and smirked.

“This is new,” he said and tugged on it lightly. “Was it a token of love? I thought you didn’t respond well to such material affections.”

“Get off of me,” Nim hissed and mustered enough strength to struggle against him. Her hands caught his, prying them off the Charity of Madness, and Lucien released. Instead, he moved one hand up to encircle her throat, the other entwining itself in her hair.

“Does he know how you make your living? Does he know what soulless monster hides beneath this vacant mask?” Lucien tugged against her scalp, brought his lips to her ear and snarled. “I’m the only one, Nimileth. I’m the only one who truly knows what you are.”

His breath was hot on her skin, and she felt his hand slip through her hair and travel down to her hip. He kneaded the flesh there, sucking air through gritted teeth as he pressed her closer to him. She smelled of soap, and beneath that, damp earth and road-dust and something vaguely floral. He swept her hair over her shoulders, exposing her neck to him as he ghosted his mouth down a trail to her collarbone and back up to her ear.

“Who is he?” he growled again, but this time the sear of anger in his eyes could not conceal the desperation clinging to his voice. “Tell me.”

“Does the assignment still stand?” Nim croaked out despite each word catching in her throat as Lucien’s hand constricted around her.

“No goodbye and not even a hello now. This is how you greet me after the troubles I’ve gone through for you? Do you know what efforts I’ve taken to keep you alive? I should see you dead right now for your disobedience. You have made me out to be a fool in front of the entire Black Hand. I should skin you where you stand for how you’ve betrayed me.”

Nim squirmed against his crushing weight. “The Sanctuary, Lucien. What has become of it?”

He ignored her, his voice burning. “I should do now what I longed to do the day I met you. No one would blame me. No one would mourn you. They already think you dead.”

Nim glared at him and uttered a cynical scoff. “You’re still bound by the Tenets, Lucien. I am not.”

“Are you threatening me?” he mocked with a mask of humor twisting on his lips. “You would find no mercy by my hands, Nimileth. You would beg Sithis to take you before I finished. Do you wish to know how I’d bring you to ruin? It would be so slow, so agonizingly slow that it would be painful even for me. The poetry I would write in your blood. The terrible hellscapes I would paint. You would scream for days if I had it my way, scream so loud that it’s resonance would be burned into my ears until the last of my mortal hours. There would be no sweeter sound in all of Mundus.”

He squeezed tighter around her throat, tighter and tighter. Nim thrashed, unable to wrench herself loose. She tugged at the collar of his robes, and when he was just inches away from her a whisper of smoke coiled upward between them. It rose past Lucien’s nose and tickled it, bearing the faintest scent of burning cotton. Lucien tensed. An unwelcome warmth began to radiate along the exposed skin of his neck.

“What keeps you then?” Nim seethed.

Lucien felt his neck growing hotter, and he blinked at Nim, the confusion building in his eyes. The acrid smell of charred fabric and hair grew stronger, and he ripped himself away from her, now working to smother an orange flame that had begun eating into his collar and at strands of stray hair.

Fire leapt across Lucien’s robes as he beat it down. Nim watched, drawing deep, shaky breaths, as he pulled the smoldering fabric over his head and stomped the lingering embers out with the sole of his boot. She leaned against the wall, regaining her breath, and rubbed at the red finger marks on her neck.

“Does the assignment still stand?” She rasped out, her face half turned to him. “What have you done to Lorise?”

Wasting no time, Lucien grabbed Nim by the shoulders and threw her onto the bed. She stumbled. Her head bounced, hitting the wooden frame. Her mind raced with a thousand ways she would kill him if she could only find the chance, but as she rolled onto her back and saw him standing over her, nostrils flaring and madness in his eyes, she found a new a sense of power. And it was sick. It was wicked even by her standards.

Nim watched him with merciless, laughing eyes. In some ways, this felt like the night in Fort Farragut, Lucien closing around her from all sides and only a gathering darkness left to fill the space between them. But Lorise was alive, and so was she, and Nim knew now the influence she had over him. She rolled slowly to the foot of the mattress and grinned up at Lucien expectantly.

The sudden change in her expression caught him off guard, and he felt the blood pounding against his skull, for it was a languid, pitiless smile that drove him to the edge of restraint.

He climbed over her, knees pressed to either side of her hips as he pinned her down. “Tell me you won’t leave again. Say it and I’ll tell you what has become of her. I won’t leave again. Say it.”

She stared back at him and released the knots of tension in her gut with a cackle, violent and hoarse. “You are crazy.”

His face contorted at the sound, eyes growing wide as it echoed against his ears. He gripped her shoulders, his soot-stained fingertips smearing dark grey across the cream fabric of her chemise. He shook her hard, and her head rolled against the white sheets as unconcerned as tall grass swaying in mellow winds.

“I won’t leave again,” she sang out, mockingly. Glistening, bloodied teeth flashed in the errant moon light as she giggled back at him.

“Say that you will never leave me.”

Nim shook her head and snaked a hand up his abdomen, untucking his shirt and raking her fingers across the hot skin beneath it. "I know what you really want, Lucien."

His breath hitched, and blood raced to his loins as she worked the buttons of his trousers and pressed her hand against the turgid flesh beneath them.

“You are my Silencer,” he told her. “You will never leave me again. Say it.”

She resisted, a defiant smirk on her reddened lips that fell as soon as Lucien pulled her prying hands away from him. The laughter in her eyes shattered to shards of glass. “Tell me what you did to her,” she bit out.

“Say it.”

“I will never leave you.”

The words scraped past her lips like a rusted blade, but it was all Lucien needed to hear to know that they were real. She was here beneath him once more, and he would see her dead before she fled from him again.

“Lorise is free from suspicion. The Black Hand has been shown her innocence. She has been promoted to Silencer and no longer serves my Sanctuary. You, however, are toeing a very thin line.”

Nim laughed again. It was a manic sound that not even she recognized. Whether laden with relief or with cruel, bloodless humor, the echo of it pounded in her head alongside a throbbing pain. “I’ve walked thinner rope.”

Lucien pressed a finger to her lips, and brought his mouth against her ear. “Now, what will you do about the Cheydinhal Sanctuary.”

“I will purify it,” she whispered.

“Who will you kill?”

“I will kill everyone.”

“Good,” he murmured into her hair and placed a kiss to her temple. Nim squirmed as he peppered a trail of them down to the corner of her mouth. “Now, do you remember what you said when you begged me to spare Lorise?”

She nodded.

“What did you promise me, Nimileth?”

“I said I would do anything. Whatever you want.”

"Good."

Lucien ran the back of his hand down the sore skin of her cheek and grinned to see her eyes twitch with pain. Again, he stroked against her tender flesh, drawing from her another wince.

“I’m the only one who knows what a vicious, spiteful creature you are," he said. "I’m the only one who could ever love something like you. Tell me that I am the only one.”

Instead, Nim pulled him closer, hands climbing through his hair as she brought her lips to his throat. His wet hair clung to her cheeks as he draped over her, and he tasted of cool rain, smelled of ash and smoldering pine. She heard his breath catch in his lungs, and soon it grew shallow and ragged as she returned to the fastenings of his trousers. She worked them undone and after slipping them off his legs, his own hands found her smallclothes and the ties that held them together.

“Nimileth--”

She crushed her mouth to his and cut him off with a whimper that made the clenched fist in his chest burst. He fell into her, his body aching.

“Shh,” she begged and kissed him again, her lips but a desperate plea to keep more words from slipping past his. “Don’t make me say that. Please don't.”

She curled her fingers around him, working them slowly as he released a throaty groan against her temple, but the distraction did not last long enough.

Lucien pulled back to look down at her, cheeks suffused with color and waiting for the answer he had requested. Nim ground against her teeth and turned away. At her refusal, he gathered her in his arms and sat back against the headboard where she settled atop his lap, her hair falling around them like a curtain, shrouding them from the stray beams of moonlight that danced across the bedsheets.

“Tell me,” he whispered down her neck, across her collarbone. His fingers roamed across all he could reach.

“You-” Nim started, but the air in her lungs was so heavy she felt she could barely breath. Lucien untied the laces of her chemise and slid the thin fabric down her arms, licking and nipping at the skin now bared to him. She choked back a mewl, unwilling to indulge him, and bit down on her swollen lips. They stung with the sharp pain of broken skin, but she bit down harder, harder tearing open freshly bled scars. “You’re the only one,” she said.

“My timid thing." Lucien purred and shifted beneath her. "I knew you would come back to me.”

“I didn’t come back for you, Lucien.” Yet she clung to his shoulders, one hand tangled in his hair, the other working to unbutton his shirt.

“Then leave. Leave and see what becomes of you.”

And so Nim sat in his arms as he shrugged off his clothing, meeting the bare skin of his chest with her own. He pulled her tighter against him and she burrowed into the curve of his neck, swallowing the gasp mounting in her throat as she lowered herself onto him. She leaned forward, pushing him against the wooden frame, and listening as his breathing grew strained. Lucien bucked his hips to her violent, fevered cadence, and they moved together, twisting and thrashing across the bed, neither fully yielding. 

Later, she laid coiled up in her Speakers arms, her new bruises warm and aching. Lucien, though still awake, rested his eyes as his breaths slowed from erratic to steady rhythm. He traced small circles across her back as she draped herself across his chest.

The rain hammered on outside, the rumbling of the thunder heads now closer. Nim thought of Raminus and how she would face him in the morning. Would he know? She shook the question from her mind. She'd die before she let him find out about this life. Only she knew of all the terrible things she had done with the Dark Brotherhood, with Lucien, and she carried that wickedness like a dark mark on her soul, an ever present shadow, a curse.

But she'd find a way to lock it all up if it meant one moment of normalcy. Even if it was all but a facade. First, she'd bathe and rid herself of the smell of smoke and cold rain lingering on her skin. She glanced down at the purple bruises on her arm that she would need to heal before anyone at the University saw her. Would Lucien follow her there? Would she always live with the fear of him lurking in her steps? She'd keep a detect life spell on her at all times now, if only to make sure that her shadow did not have an aura. 

All these lies, all this hiding. She felt stuck in two very separate lives and cursed her self silently for neither of them were going well at all. She thought of the Shivering Isles and its promise of warm comfort and isolation, somewhere she could go to rot and fester, somewhere she could blend into the landscape around her as though she were made perfectly for its decay. Sheogorath's throne offered her a life with no obligation to anyone's will or well-being but her own, and she wondered if it might just be safer for the rest of Cyrodiil if she simply disappeared.

Her heart skittered and she swallowed a dry swallow that tasted of sweat and blood rust.

With a deep sigh, she propped herself up on an elbow and peered up at the underside of Lucien's jaw. She ran a finger across the bruise she had given him there and then across the scar on his cheek. It was unsightly in its current state but would cause no serious damage, and it would certainly heal and fade as long as he treated it properly to stave off infection. Nim ran her thumb gently down its length and let a healing spell mend the skin beneath it anyway.

The warm tingle of the spell startled Lucien, and he reached up and touched smooth skin along his cheekbone. His hand brushed Nim’s and she quickly pulled it back to her side. He lifted his head off the pillow to meet her eye, watching her curiously, the shadow of a smile on his lips.

“What?” Nim rolled off of him and onto her side. She pawed at the pillow beneath her head, fluffing it up before nestling into it.

"Say I wanted that scar."

"I can always give you another."

Lucien turned to face her, and though he was now occupying more of her pillow space than she would willingly share, she did not pull away. Not even when he grazed his hand down the length of her jaw and brought his mouth to hers. He kissed her tenderly, so softly it felt like she was kissing a stranger.

“I don’t mean to be this way with you,” he whispered.

“Funny, I didn’t realize you’ve been strangling me on accident all this time.” His hands tightened on her briefly, but just as quickly he released, sunk into the pillow, and sighed.

“Your insolence kindles a wrath in me that no words can describe. Each time I speak with you, I swear I learn a new shade of madness.”

Nim laughed softly and rolled her eyes. “You know nothing of madness. Be grateful.”

“I know that when I am touching you, I know not where you start and where I end. I lose myself in you, Nimileth. If you only knew the lengths I’ve undergone to keep you alive, then maybe you would understand. After you left--”

“Don’t tell me this. I don’t want to hear it.”

Nim's gut churned at the thought of her life somehow made safer in Lucien’s hands, hands that could snap her neck just as easily as they could cradle her. She squeezed her eyes shut only to greet the endless void that stared back at her. She felt as though she were falling into it, deeper and deeper, and knew not whether Lucien was pulling her out or dragging her further in. It was true, because of him Lorise was now safe. Because of him, she still had a family to return to.

If that night in Fort Farragut had never happened, where would she be?

She heard him clear his throat as though to speak, but before he could slip out another word, Nim pulled the sheets tightly around them and nestled closer. She pressed her cheek against his chest and heard the crazed thump of his heart.

“Don’t. Please, let’s just go to sleep,” she said.

Lucien stroked her hair, knotted strands clinging to his fingers, and despite all the opportunities he had to kill her that day, he chose instead to lay beside her. He was silent for some time, basking in the warmth that radiated from her small form curled up against him, and he tried his best to ignore the cold stone growing heavy in his chest. 

“I’m no fool,” he said. “I know that you could disappear forever if you so desired.”

“Yet here I am.” The words rang painfully sharp, like a deafening bell.

Lucien drew her closer and settled his chin atop her head as he allowed void to consume him. “Yet, here you are,” he said, hoping that she stayed out of something more than obligation and knowing it would not be for long enough.

* * *

Nim awoke to a stirring of the covers. She felt the weight beside her lift off the mattress and peeked over the edge of the blanket. “You’re leaving?” she asked, her voice hoarse with sleep.

“Did you want me to stay?”

She gave no reply.

Lucien scoffed softly, and Nim closed her eyes against the shuffling of his bare feet across the floor. She focused on the sounds of the early morning, the bellowing thunderclaps, the assailing rain on the roof above her. She cocooned herself in the sheets and listened to the _swish_ of fabric as Lucien gathered his belongings and dressed. The bedframe creaked as he sat at the edge to lace his boots, and the mattress dipped toward him. Nim wrapped herself tighter in the sheets and blinked out into the dimness, watching his figure move, even darker than shadow in the grey light of the room.

“This is crazy, Lucien.”

He looked over his shoulder, brows raised, as he fastened the buttons on his shirt. “What is?”

“I have nothing to give you. What do you want me to do? We’re going to end up killing each other if we continue like this.”

Lucien grinned. The thought lifted a weight off his chest and he watched her blink back at him, dark eyes glowing like burning pines. There was no other way to continue. She was his Silencer, and when she purified the Sanctuary, she would be everything and all that remained. 

“If death comes to call on you, it will be by my hand and no one else’s,” he promised her.

A blasé frown drooped on her lips. “Wow. I never knew you were such a romantic.”

He laughed softly and when he finished dressing, he knelt on the bed and leaned forward. Nim burrowed further into her blankets until just two round eyes peeked out, watchful and waiting. 

“Go with Sithis,” Lucien said and laid a kiss on the bridge of her nose. “You have much work to do.”


	33. The Winter, Willingly Frozen

**Chapter 33: The Winter, Willingly Frozen**

Nim stood beneath the eaves of the arena betting booth as rain flooded the gutters and fell in sheets before her. If she weren’t so busy shivering from the wind and rain that whipped against her, she would be slumped beside the wall fast asleep. She hadn’t slept well last night despite the silken comforts of her expensive hotel room. Something about lying next to a man who had followed her all the way from Bravil undetected only to threaten to throw her corpse into Lake Rumare left her feeling like a taut, overloaded string fraying under the tension of a half-ton rock.

The wind blew icy needles across her face, and as she shivered beneath her cloak she thought back to her hotel room, the bed and the heat that radiated off the man she had shared it with. In the moment, it felt like tempting relief. The memory of Lucien and his parting words tightened in Nim’s chest, and before she could entertain any further thoughts of her Speaker, she slapped at her cheeks, the skin there stinging worse than she had expected as the cold grated against it.

If there was anywhere in the city that she would find Lorise, it would be here at the entrance of the arena, and so she waited as the shrouded sky paled to a steel grey. Slowly, the city awoke around her. Guards exchanged posts at the district gate and a few citizens scurried through the rain on their way to the market. Hundolin, the arena bookkeeper, unlocked the gate behind her as he prepared to take bets for the early morning matches. He eyed Nim in cautious recognition as she huddled under the roofed betting stage but said nothing as he went along his business. Through the curtains of rain, she watched as the guards greeted a cloaked figure passing through the gate, their voices drowned out by the pelting storm. Nim felt her muscles spring into action as the figure approached the cage of the betting stage, drawing her hood back and shaking the water droplets from a braid of black hair.

“Lorise!” Nim rushed to her and after a few startled seconds, the two embraced under the archway of the arena entrance. “You’re safe. Oh, thank the Gods. I wouldn’t believe it until I saw you in the flesh.”

Lorise squeezed the smaller woman and despite her own wet hair being caught uncomfortably between their arms, she did not let go. “Praise Y’ffre, you’re back,” she choked out, nearly weeping. Nim attempted to speak again, but after having all the air in her lungs squeezed out by Lorise’s arms, she barely managed a wheeze. “You got my message then. I was so worried it would be months and months before you checked. When did you find it?”

“Earlier this week,” Nim finally managed. “I came looking for you as soon as I could. I found your fighting schedule posted in the papers, so I knew you’d be here this morning. What of Vicente? Is he safe?”

Lorise squeezed tighter before pulling back. She looked down at Nim and smoothed the green cloak over her shoulders, adjusting the clasp at Nim’s neck to draw it tighter. “He’s alive. It will relieve him so to know you are too. I’m glad you’re here. You look alright. I was worried that- ”

“I am alright,” Nim assured her with a crooked smile. “And you?”

“Same. More or less. There’s much to discuss.” Lorise cast a cautious glance at Hundolin who was eyeing the pair of Bosmers from the very corner of his eye. She took hold of Nim’s arm and gestured toward the Bloodworks entrance with a sideways nod of her head. “Come,” she said, “we must talk somewhere more private.”

Lorise led her through the Bloodworks, which was thankfully empty except for a rather peeved looking Redguard. They walked further, past the training dummies and weapon racks and into a large penned off ring occupied by a rather tame boar. It sniffed Nim and, finding her regrettably void of treats, snorted off into the far corner uninterested where it rooted about in a strewn pile of hay. The boar had remarkably large tusks, the largest Nim had ever seen. They were a bit jagged and bent from years of fighting, and she thought it wise to step gingerly and keep the creature’s location in her periphery.

“That’s Porkchop,” Lorise told her, noticing her cautious eye trailing the boar. “It’s alright. He’ll do you no harm.”

“Porkchop. How fitting.”

“He’s a good pig, really. The crowd loves him.”

Nim watched the boar amble gracelessly across the straw before it settled itself beside an empty slop bowl. “Tell me,” she said, turning back to Lorise. “What news?”

“I’ve been spared,” Lorise said. “I don’t know how he did it, but Lucien convinced the Black Hand to exclude me from the purification. I’m a Silencer now, just as you are.”

“So we’re both part of the Hand now. Look at us high-rollers,” Nim joked and chuckled weakly, but her laughter died as soon as she saw Lorise’s expression darken.

“Yeah,” the older woman sighed. “I’m sure my father would be proud of us. We’ve both been doing so well to follow in his footsteps.”

“It won’t end the same way, Lorise. We won’t let it. We’ve made it this far, and my role in keeping us safe is far from over.”

“At what cost? I know this isn’t the life you see for yourself.”

Nim shook her head firmly. “It doesn’t matter. It’s the life that brought me to you and Vicente. As strange as it is, well, I suppose I’m grateful for that at least. I honestly wasn’t sure if this plan would work, but here we are. I am alive. You and Vicente are alive. I wouldn’t have believed Lucien until I heard it from you.”

Lorise’s eyes widened at that, a flash of grim realization whipping across them. “You knew already that I had been spared.” Nim nodded and Lorise blanched. “Lucien told you? When did he- I thought you just got back?”

Nim shrugged, playing oblivious to Lorise’s startled expression. “You know how the Speaker is, well-connected, ever watchful. He just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

“He found you?”

“Not the way you’re thinking. I had to return at some point and check for a sign from you. I saw the ribbon in Deepscorn Hollow and decided it was time to return. I lingered around Bravil for too long. It was foolish, but if I knew there was still danger, I wouldn’t have made myself so obvious. I assumed we were safe to resume life as normal.”

Lorise blinked silently, stared at Nim with grim concern. “Nim, did he hurt you?”

“Please, not now.” She looked away, ignoring how exposed she felt beneath the woman’s stare. “Lucien is the least of my concerns at the moment. I’m relieved that he’s helped me keep you safe, but I must still perform the rite of the purification. Where is Vicente now? Did you tell him?”

Lorise nodded, the concern in her eyes still piercing into Nim’s stoic gaze. “He said he’ll help us. I no longer serve the Cheydinhal Sanctuary. He’s the only one on the inside that could aide you.”

“That’s one less thing to worry about in this mess.” Nim sighed and a heavy burden lifted from her lungs in the long, deep breath. “But who do you serve now?”

“Mathieu Bellamont. Do you remember him? He filled Banus Alor’s position a few months back. He’s younger than I am, did you know? It unnerves me.”

“He’s not so bad,” Nim shrugged, “at least not that I’m aware of. More importantly, it means your safe.”

Lorise paused briefly and then nodded. She watched as Nim backed up against the near wall and slumped down into the straw. She followed after her, and the two sat side by side, leaning against each other. She offered a small, rueful smile and though Nim returned it, the air between them had changed considerably since they entered the Bloodworks. It smelled the same, like dried blood and lingering pipe tobacco, but felt heavy, stiflingly so.

Nim tore her gaze away and swiped her hand across her face. “How the hell am I going to purge the sanctuary, Lorise?”

A heartbeat of silence fell upon the woman in question and she focused on a large, brown spider that made its way across the floor and began its ascent up the wall. Porkchop came by to inspect the intruder and promptly licked it off the stone with a pleased glimmer in his eye.

“Well, you’re the smart one,” she said at last and picked up a fistful of dry straw. She began braiding the dried stems as she spoke, the idleness of her hands making her uncomfortable. “Treat it like any other problem. Let’s break it down. What’s going to be the most difficult part?”

The question was so absurd, Nim nearly laughed. She was to kill six seasoned assassins. It would be a miracle if she made it out alive.

“I was planning on poisoning everyone,” Nim said, and the words felt like bile on her tongue. The bitterness spread across the inside of her cheek and she swallowed, felt her face pull into a grimace. “But even if I lace every drink and every meal, I doubt it will be ingested all at the same time. If people keel over and die one by one, they’ll know it was foul play. I can only imagine how suspicious I’d seem after such a long absence.”

“But it would kill some,” Lorise replied.

“Not fast enough. Tienaava and Ocheeva would have a natural resistance, and they’re arguably the most skilled assassins there.” 

“Who’s the easiest then?”

“Antoinetta,” she replied without much thought.

Lorise squinted her eyes as though in deep thought. “No, I think Telaendril will be the easiest. You’ll kill her on the road and she’ll never see it coming. She should be making her way to Leyawiin right as we speak. Perhaps you can find her on the Yellow Road.” Lorise released a small whistle and clucked her tongue, beckoning Porkchop near. The boar’s ears perked, and he trotted toward them, nudging his snout into Nim’s empty palms.

“That’s right,” she said, absently stroking the stiff bristles of the boar’s head. The resignation in her voice alarmed her almost as much as the determination in Lorise’s did. How could they speak so casually about murdering the other members of the Sanctuary? They might be cold-blooded killers, but none of them deserved a betrayal like this. These were people who trained her, laughed with her, who accepted the most vile parts of her. These were people who claimed to love her.

But did she love them?

Nim tucked her knees under her chin and glanced up at Lorise who was still braiding a crown of straw. She’d die for Lorise or Vicente without batting an eye, and if there was anything pressing her onward during purification, it would be the promise of their safety.

“Ocheeva has Telaendril scouting around Cheydinhal too,” Nim continued. “I’m sure someone else will be away on contract in the next week. It will be easier if I could find them outside of the sanctuary. I’m much better from a distance.”

“Vicente could tell you where they’re supposed to be. He knows the contracts they’ve been assigned to.”

“Gods I hate having to involve him,” she grimaced. “Isn’t it enough to know that the Black Hand wants your family dead without dirtying your own hands with their blood too?”

“This is Vicente we’re talking about. If you think he wouldn’t risk his own life for the ones he loves, you don’t know him.”

“He loves them too, Lorise. That’s his family. Who am I to him but a newcomer? Why should I mean any more to him than one of our brothers or sisters?”

“Don’t think about it that way,” Lorise said sharply. “This is the family he chose, you and I. You mustn’t question it. You mustn’t give in to doubt. Promise me you won’t doubt him. There’s no room for uncertainty if you are to survive this.”

“I- I promise it,” Nim stammered out.

“He cares a great deal for you, Nim. You bring out a paternal side of him I didn’t know existed.”

The rueful smile had returned to Lorise’s lips, and she reached her hand out toward Nim, brushed the damp hair back over her ears. Nim felt a prickling sensation behind her eyes and bit down on the inside of her cheek until the burning subsided. It was strange, knowing there were people standing beside her through an act so unspeakable, and it was not unwelcome. 

“I’ll be back in Cheydinhal in a few days, and I’ll tell Vicente that you’ve returned,” Lorise continued. “He’ll know what to do. He always knows. Come find me in my house, and we’ll make a plan.”

Nim’s stomach lurched forward, and if there was anything inside it, she might have found herself in fear of retching. She looked down at Porkchop and his umber, brown eyes glistened back without care for anything in the world beside her gentle scratches of affection and the hope of another morning snack. What a life she would live if she could be anything else but herself in that moment.

“I wish it wasn’t this way,” she said, her voice shaky. “I bet I’d have a better chance at surviving if I only had to fight off one person trying to purify me rather than six as I try to purify them. Lucien never should have made me his Silencer. He’s such a fool to think I’m capable of this.”

Lorise placed her hand over Nim’s and squeezed gently. “It had to be you. He made the decision long, long ago. I told you it would only get worse.”

“I’m an idiot aren’t I? Everyone warned me.” Nim shook her head, eyes squeezed tightly closed. There was nothing she could do to change the fact now, and she sighed. “It’s not really so bad,” she said as though attempting to reassure herself rather than Lorise. “He spared you despite the initial orders from the Black Hand. He did so because I asked him too.”

Lorise’s brow grew heavy and though there was still sympathy in her eyes, they met Nim with a stern coldness around the edges. “At what cost to yourself? What did you promise him in exchange for my freedom? I can only imagine the things he’s asked of you that you don’t tell me.”

Nim turned away out of shame, felt her cheeks burning under Lorise’s scrutiny. “Really, it’s not so bad. I don’t think he’d harm me as long as I follow his orders. I think he just likes to threaten me.”

“You’re a possession to him. Don’t fool yourself into thinking he can genuinely care beyond that,” Lorise spat. “You might think you hold some power over him, but the moment you make that step too far, he’ll snap. I’ve seen him do it before. You can’t trust him.”

Nim gave a withering scoff. “You think I trust him?”

“I only mean to say that he’s a dangerous, unpredictable man. If you find yourself getting comfortable, you’ve already made a grave mistake.”

“He hasn’t killed me yet, despite having every opportunity and excuse to do so. He’s kept you alive through this whole ordeal. He’s allowed me to come back. I pay the price of his toll because the reward is worth it.”

“But he wants to hurt you. I’ve seen what he does to those he thinks he owns.”

“But he hasn’t.”

“No?”

Nim groaned and rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand as she slumped against Lorise. Porkchop followed after, resting his head on Nim’s lap and nudging her firmly with his tusks.

“So what? What else can I do?” She whispered, and her voice was heavy with resignation. “I bargained with him for our lives, Lorise. These are the things we do for the ones we love.”

“I- I know, Nim. I’m so sorry.” Lorise wrapped an arm around Nim’s shoulder and pulled her closer. “If there was a way it could be me instead of you—”

“It has to be me,” she repeated. “You said it yourself. Just promise me once this is done, we’ll get away for a while. Just you, Vicente, and I.”

“Of course.” Lorise brushed through Nim’s hair, picking out the stray bits of straw and debris that had collected there. “Where will we go? Say the name and we’ll be off.”

“Anywhere. Daggerfall, Solitude, Mournhold. I don’t care. I just want to pretend that I haven’t shattered my life to a thousand pieces. Is it so wrong to seek some semblance of normalcy to my life? I’ve done so many terrible things. Do I deserve any respite from all the guilt I carry?”

“Who deserves anything?” Lorise whispered. “Sometimes the world will never give to you at all. It will take and take until it’s stripped you bare, and sometimes you have no choice but to take something back for yourself. If it’s a moment of happiness, so be it.”

* * *

Raminus sat in his private quarters with a pot of cooling stoneflower tea on the coffee table before him. The morning hours crept by, and still his only company was the onslaught of rain streaking across his window. Where could Nim be? He opened the lid of the teapot and using a spoon, let a wave of heat conduct along the length of the metal as he swirled it, stopping only when he saw steam rise from the water’s surface. Traven would be expecting them in a few hours, and an anxious restlessness coiled in his belly. Had Nim found Lorise? Were things not as safe as she had made them out to be?

A sudden knock at the door interrupted his worries, and Raminus rose to greet the sound. He felt a surge of anticipation as he heard a small voice call out from the other side.

“Hey, it’s me,” the voice said, and Raminus opened the door to find Nim looking up from a rain-soaked cloak, damp strands of hair sticking to her cheek.

“Blessed Kynareth, you’ll catch a death that way,” he said, ushering her inside.

“Kynareth’s in a right mood today, I’ll toast to that,” she grumbled and shook her hair loose from the confines of her hood.

He took her wet cloak, motioning toward the sitting area as he walked away to set it to dry on a nearby stand.

“Help yourself to some tea,” he said and looked back at her, found her shivering right where he had left her. Releasing a sigh, he warmed his hands with aid of magical heat and brought Nim into an embrace as he attempted to stave off the lingering cold and dampness that clung to her.

“Oh. That’s a neat trick.” The heat was quite welcome, the tenderness of his touch even more so, but both were still unfamiliar to Nim and she stiffened briefly before leaning in. “Thank you.”

“I thought you had forgotten that we made plans this morning.”

“Me, forget?” Nim replied. “Just running a bit late, that’s all. Storm’s quite intent on blowing the city away.” She followed after Raminus as he took a seat on the sofa and began preparing two cups of tea.

“It was dreadful last night. I thought my windowpane was going to shatter by the way it rattled. I hope it didn’t disturb you as much as it did me. Did you sleep alright?”

Her eyes widened briefly at the mention of the night before. Fresh, bloodied memories flashed across her mind; the anger blackening Lucien’s eyes, the fear rising in her throat until it choked her.

“No, I wasn’t disturbed at all. I, uh, slept just fine.”

“Good.”

When Raminus smiled, his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. It was a small, genuine joy, and Nim liked looking at it very much. He handed her the steaming cup, their fingers lightly grazing each other’s as she accepted.

And suddenly, Nim felt very dirty despite her morning bath, and her clean clothes, and the shower that had followed her from her hotel to the University. More images from last night resurfaced intrusively, and though she tried to press them away, she saw her hands moving in wicked ways, her body arching, her bruises blooming. She felt Lucien’s lips pliant against hers, and his limbs tangling around her like the claws of ivy, burrowing deeper and deeper until they winded around bone.

She brought the teacup to her mouth and swallowed scalding liquid. She took another sip, let it sit and sear on her tongue as though it could burn the thoughts away.

“Are you alright?” Raminus asked. “You look distracted. Did you find Lorise? I know it’s not my place to ask but--”

“S’okay,” she replied quickly. “Lorise is safe. I saw her earlier this morning.”

“And you?”

“I’m safe too. I’ve just been travelling for a while now. It must be starting to catch up to me.” Nim looked into her tea, caught her pitiful reflection staring back at her. “Perhaps I didn’t sleep as well as I thought.”

“You can rest here if you want,” Raminus suggested. Nim’s ears perked at the offer, but she met him with a hesitant expression

“May I?”

“Of course,” he chuckled and reached around her for the woolen throw that was draped across the arm rest beside her. He wrapped it around her shoulders, and she huddled beneath it, wishing his hands could remain on her for just a few minutes longer. She watched as he stood with his cup of tea and made for his desk.

“Raminus,” she called out to him. He turned halfway and arched a brow. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing. Get some rest. I’ll wake you when it’s time to meet with Traven.”

Nim lay on her side facing the backrest of the sofa. She curled a wet strand of hair around her finger and released a soft pulse of heat, just as Raminus had done earlier when he warmed her. The lock of hair, now dry, slipped of her finger in a tight coil, and Nim smiled to herself as she let her eyes drift closed.

She slept briefly and comfortably, save her dreams which were plagued by the smell of woodsmoke and cool rain drifting off the needles of mountain pine.

* * *

Nim sat between Hannibal Traven and Raminus in an otherwise empty council room. Surprisingly little was spoken about her untimely departure aside from a brief and cordial _welcome back. _She wondered whether or not Raminus had said anything to the Arch-mage to cover for her absence, or perhaps Traven truly didn’t mind her being gone at all.

They had been discussing the betrayal in painstaking details, and Nim thought for a moment that she heard Traven aske her to sit in for one of the empty seats. Surely it must be the sleep-deprivation fuddling her mind.

“Nim?” Raminus called to her, noticing the glazed look in her eyes.

“Hmm?”

“The Arch-mage is waiting on your reply.”

“Oh, pardon,” she said, turning toward Traven. “I couldn’t possibly have heard that correctly. Did you truly ask me to sit on the Council?”

Traven furrowed a brow and looked at her curiously. “I did, and what say you? Are you willing and able to accept the station?”

“Me?” she grimaced. “Archmage, I don’t know the first thing about how to handle administrative duties.” And quite frankly, she had no desire to learn them. “I’m really not the type for leadership. I’m contentious and irascible, and honestly, I have a hard time dealing with authority.”

Traven met her reservations with a smile that radiated a practiced, almost unnatural calm. “All these may be true, but you’re candid and possess a fierce loyalty to the prosperity of this guild. I disagree with Council members all the time. I encourage disputing views. That’s hardly of concern.”

Nim turned to Raminus with a bewildered expression. “Did you know about this?”

The Imperial inclined his head away from her, looking slightly startled and slightly guilty. “I had an inkling. I didn’t actually think it true, no offense.”

“These are dark days, Nimileth,” Traven continued. “I want only the most dependable and driven of mages on my Council. You have proven time and time again that you are deserving of such consideration.”

Nim replied with an unconvinced frown. These were dire times indeed, and she was certain that she’d never be considered for such a position if the Council did not now teeter on the brink of dissolution.

“This is temporary, right?” she asked. “There are better suited mages for this position, don’t try and tell me otherwise. I’ve met them.”

“Under normal circumstances, yes,” Traven nodded, “I’d be disinclined to promote a mage so young and inexperienced in management to our ranks. What you lack in administrative experience, however, you make for with a razor-edged intuition and extensive capacity to learn. I know you’ve been holding onto information about Mannimarco. You suspected a traitor on the Council long before I did, and that was only possible because of how diligent you were while completing your missions.”

Nim’s unconvinced frown remained stiff and unwavering on her face. She arched a brow, now looking just as unamused as she did doubtful of his praise.

“I’m not trying to flatter you, Nimileth,” the Arch-mage sighed. “I’m attempting to justify to you why I think you should accept the position. No one else on this Council, myself included, is as knowledgeable as you are on the threat we currently face. We cannot face the King of Worms without your aid.”

“If I accept this seat,” Nim began, jabbing a finger sternly into the surface of the table, “I will no longer tolerate being treated as an expendable errand boy. That means I will have a say in any ongoing or future investigations into known or suspected necromancer activity. I expect a full list of the mages we have acting as double agents and complete access to Mucianus’ reports from Neyond Twyll. The same goes for any other reports that we’ve received from scouts or patrolling guards. I’ll reserve my right to resign after Mannimarco is dealt with, and I will only allow myself to be removed by a unanimous vote.”

Though Nim loathed having these responsibilities thrust upon her, Traven had managed to convince her that this decision would be in the best interest of the guild. And it did feel cathartic to finally be in a position to make demands of the Council after so many months of rejection. After outlining all her expectations, she leaned back in her chair, her heart racing with a strange mix of excitement and apprehension.

All the while, Traven sat demurely with his hands folded in his lap as though patiently waiting for Nim to continue.

“Do we have an understanding?” she asked him with as polite a tone as she could manage.

Traven nodded. “I understand perfectly.”

Nim adjusted her shirt and gave a stiff nod. “Then I shall accept.”

Traven smiled, looking both pleased and relieved. He stood to his feet and reached his hand toward Nim who stared at it for a few seconds longer than considered tactful with a bemused expression on her face before rising to shake it.

“I congratulate you, Master Wizard. I am ever so grateful to have you here among my counsel.” His warm brown eyes, clouded with age, stared gratefully into hers.

“Ah, thanks,” she murmured in response and quickly returned to her seat, scooting in against the table. “I’m glad to be of service.”

Nim knew what Traven said was true. Without her intel, the Mages Guild would be completely in the dark about Mannimarco’s return, but this did little to quiet her qualms. Though she always believed deep down that she would have a promising future in the guild, she didn’t expect to reach Master Wizard this quickly and certainly not under these circumstances. The title was an ambition all young mages aspired to, but to Nim, it now felt bland and meretricious. She whispered it under her breath. It carried all the appeal of a pale, stolen dream that had all its enchantment leached away.

Beneath the table, a hand brushed across the back of her palm, and she half turned toward it, towards Raminus. His focus was directed toward the Arch-mage, who had just cleared his throat to begin again, but he met Nim’s eye briefly, the corners of his mouth curled ever so slightly, the corners of his eyes crinkled. The hand on hers squeezed gently and then removed itself as Traven spoke.

“With Nimileth’s promotion settled, I think it best that we discuss the recent report from the patrols.” The two Master Wizards nodded, and Traven slid a folder across the table toward them. Nim opened it to find several pages of reports from the southern sentries who patrolled the lower Niben. Beneath them was a map that marked a fort northeast of Leyawiin and several annotated diagrams of the missing Bloodworm Helm. “And now onto the grim matters of today’s meeting. We’ve managed to track down Irlav Jarol to the northern reaches of County Leyawiin. He is believed to be residing in Fort Teleman, a few miles east of the yellow road.”

“Any reason why he would go there?” Nim asked as she skimmed through the reports.

Traven stood tall, despite his less than average height, and clasped his hands behind his back as he spoke. His face was solemn despite its warmth. “From our records it seems the fort was once the location of a field laboratory where Ayleid artifacts would be cleaned and cataloged before being sent back to the University for permanent housing. I imagine it contains much of the equipment Irlav would need to further study the Bloodworm Helm. He hopes to learn enough from it to find a new weakness we can exploit as we prepare to fight Mannimarco.”

“Or so he claims,” Nim interjected. From the corner of her eye, she saw Raminus stiffen in his seat. Traven sighed.

“Yes, so he claims. Even if he was truthful in his motivations for taking it, it was still a rash and reckless decision. I tried to dissuade him without success. If Irlav refuses to return to the University, I would like the helm to be brought back so that it may be kept safe here under our protection. I fear that by taking it, Irlav has made himself a target for the Necromancers. I ask that you see to this at your earliest convenience, Master Wizard NImileth. We cannot have such a powerful artifact fall into Necromancer hands, nor do we wish to see any harm come to Irlav.”

Nim nodded in understanding. “Then I best head there soon. And you can just call me Nimileth when we speak amongst ourselves.” The less she heard of that title, the better.

“So will I,” Raminus said quickly. “I’m coming with you to investigate. I think I have a better chance of convincing Irlav than you, no fault of your own.”

“Raminus, the Council is threadbare as it is,” Traven stressed as he looked to the Imperial. “I don’t think it wise that you stray far from the University. While I don’t doubt that Nimileth is plenty capable of seeing to the matter without your assistance, if she would so like I’ll send her with several of our battlemages for support.”

“No, Arch-mage. I mean no disrespect by disagreeing with you, but I will be going with Nimileth to Fort Teleman.”

Traven arched a brow at his insistence. He stood quietly for but a moment as he inspected the mages before him, and Nim felt suddenly bare in the silence. “Very well,” he replied and crossed the room to the teleporter. “Report back to me as soon as you can. I do hope Irlav returns with you.”

With the room now empty save the two of them, Nim turned to Raminus with a small, droopy pout. “You didn’t have to do that, you know. Tensions are already so high.”

“Traven hardly seemed opposed by the end,” Raminus assured her. “I told you, I’m done watching you throw yourself into harm’s way on the Council’s request. I’m coming with you. Tell me when and I’ll be ready.”

“I don’t suppose I have time to go to Anvil and come back,” Nim sighed, “not with how sensitive a mission this is.”

“Is there something you need that you didn’t bring with you? We can pick it up from the market, I’m sure.”

“No, it isn’t that. I just haven’t been home in a while. I kind of miss it, you know?”

Raminus studied her fallen expression as he struggled to think of something comforting to say. “Well, as soon as this business at Fort Teleman is settled, I don’t see why you can’t return to Anvil.”

“Yeah? After this and then after we find Caranya and then after we investigate Echo Cave. It’s endless.”

“Everything has an end.”

Nim looked up at Raminus with a lopsided expression and felt a sickening churn in her stomach. “Yeah, isn’t that so.”

“Come on,” he said, resting a hand on her shoulder and motioning toward the teleporter. “Let’s get your things from my room and see if we can find a carriage to Leyawiin before the morning’s out.”

The pair proceeded through the teleporter and out into the frigid, stormy morning. Fighting in the rain made her flame spells much less effective, and she hoped the thundershower would sweep west and not south, passing them by as they travelled. With all her possessions in tow, they made their way to the stables and paid the fare for the coach riding to Leyawiin. As the carriage carried them further down the Green Road, Nim found herself relieved by the brightening sky. The storm, as relentless as it was, seemed to be dying down just as all things do. Even the ones she wished would endure

* * *

Fort Teleman stood in shambles on the sloped hillside of the Blackwoods as Magnus shone it’s dying light through the crumbling remains of the outer wall. Nim and Raminus approached cautiously with their detection spells wandering as far as their mysticism allowed. Confirming with one another that they found no signs of life guarding the fort’s entrance, they drew closer. Nim pressed her ear to the thick wooden door and listened for any footsteps or voices beyond it, but the only thing she heard was the intermittent calls of the evening birds and the whisper-soft rustle of desiccated leaves.

Raminus had wandered off into the overgrown shrubbery of the fort’s courtyard, and Nim could just barely make out the top of his head behind a tall bush of privet as she searched for him. He was standing remarkably still, eyes narrowed and focused intently downward. He took a ginger step forward and then crouched down, disappearing behind the bush. Whatever he had stumbled upon seemed to alarm him greatly.

Nim scurried away from the door and peeked around the brush to find him kneeling beside a dead body in singed, torn black robes.

“A shock spell,” he said, pointing at the charred fabric and red tendrils of discharged electricity scarring the visible skin beneath the tear. “Body looks partially decomposed.”

“Necromancers?” she whispered to Raminus as she crouched beside him. With the aid of a telekinesis spell, he turned the body onto its back, revealing the front side of its robes. A red symbol of skull and crossbones was emblazoned across it.

“They’re already here,” he nodded grimly. “Or perhaps they’ve been here for a while.”

“You don’t mean- you think that Irlav could be the traitor? Could it be? You know him better than I, does that make any sense to you?”

Raminus hesitated before answering. “Nothing makes sense anymore,” he said, standing to his feet. “Let’s continue on.”

The inside of the fort reeked with the fetor of decay. The smell of old blood and charred bodies accosted their senses immediately upon crossing into the antechamber, and Nim was quickly reminded of the burning guild hall in Bruma. She felt her skin blanche. It was a stench that she knew promised of peril.

The further they delved into the dungeon, the more bodies they found littering the floor. Some were necromancers, some donned University robes that identified the fallen as Apprentices and Warlocks of guild ranking. The signs of battle were obvious all across the halls, and Nim was convinced by now that these two groups were acting separately on their interest in the Bloodworm Helm. Though the rot was clearly beginning to set in, she couldn’t imagine they were dead for very long. She knew the importance of fresh corpses in any good necromancer’s practice. Such a crucial resource wouldn’t be wasted if it could be avoided.

They followed the winding hallway until it opened onto a raised platform overlooking a large chamber. In the center was an altar at which four necromancers were working to stitch together a mutilated corpse. Nim signaled to Raminus and ducked down behind the platform’s railing, hoping he understood the meaning of her wild hand waving gestures. Thankfully, the look of pointed alarm in her eyes seemed to be a universal cue that meant danger was imminent, and Raminus crouched low to conceal himself too.

After shrugging off her pack, Nim began the assault with little warning, and Raminus scrambled to do the same as he steeled himself and watched her notch an arrow. She aimed her bow at the nearest necromancer, an Altmer from what she could make out. It soared cleanly through the air and lodged itself at the base of her skull. The crack of shattering bone filled the chamber, echoing off its cold stone walls. Blood sprayed across the Altmer’s companions who immediately turned to search for the intruder and raise their undead thralls from a pile of bodies in the corner of the room.

While Nim descended the stairs at the far end of the platform, Raminus launched a fireball with admittedly less accuracy than his fellow mage had just exhibited. Despite his unpracticed aim, it struck the second necromancer across the shoulder. His black robes caught fire and as he beat the flame down with a frost spell, Nim let another arrow fly straight into his eye socket.

Now they faced only two necromancers, and both began lobbing fireballs and bolts of electricity at the railing behind which Raminus took cover. Dropping to his knees, he crawled toward the stairs just in time to catch sight of a zombie throwing Nim from the steps and onto the stone floor. She rolled off her stomach and onto her back, fending off the thrall with her bow and kicking at its legs to knock it off balance. As tempted as he was to rush to her aid, Raminus directed his attacks at the remaining necromancers who were shuffling backwards towards a door at the opposite end of the chamber. They were attempting to escape, and if they returned with reinforcements, it might just spell the end for him and Nim.

Raminus rushed down the stairs and sent a burst of shock magic into the door. The metal bars sizzled with electricity, blocking the path of egress, and the necromancers scattered in opposite directions. He aimed his spell at the one advancing toward Nim. The shock bolt struck the necromancer in the chest, and he fell to his knees, seizing against the stone pillar. Before Raminus had the chance to strike again, however, he felt a firm fist make contact with his temple, and then another. Two more undead thralls had appeared, and amidst the disorienting throb pounding in his skull, he found himself dodging both swings and fireballs as the last necromancer and his zombies attacked.

Behind him, he heard a sickening rip as a blade tore its way through flesh. Nim grunted and kicked the zombie off of her. It crashed into the wall and then to the floor where it twitched, attempting to right itself. Nim sent a stream of fire to douse its anguished groans, and turning away from the bonfire she had just made of the worm thrall, she had just enough time to dodge a stream of shock magic directed at her head. The spell missed, but only barely, and her shoulder was left burning with white, hot pain. The downed necromancer had recovered from Raminus’ spell and continued his advance upon her. Quickly casting invisibility, she rushed behind him, drew her blade, and sliced his throat open with such force she hit bone. Hot spouts of blood spewed forth down his robes, coating her hands in the viscous liquid.

She scrambled quickly toward Raminus who was now engaged in a rather impressive display of dexterity. He darted away from the attacking zombies and an onslaught of fireballs while simultaneously lobbing his own spells at the remaining necromancer. She was a burly Orc that dwarfed Nim by several heads in every dimension. Though her focus was trained on Raminus, she spied Nim approaching from the shadows with her dagger drawn and quickly sent a burst of flame in the elf’s direction. Nim leapt aside and moved forward to attack. Instead, she received a smack so powerful it left pain ringing against her teeth. Nim struck out again, this time with a flame spell, but the Orc reflected it and sent a searing wave of heat across Nim’s chest.

Nim screamed as she smothered the flames and crashed against the nearby pillar. Blood streamed down her temples and clouded her vision. Through the haze of red, she saw the Orc approaching, her hands aflame in an orange blaze. Nim attempted to roll out of the way but the necromancer caught her leg, burning the flesh in her grip and Nim cried out again. She held her dagger, hoping that if she twisted and contorted her body in just the right way, she could strike and giver herself enough time to make herself invisible. Suddenly, a green magical light engulfed the Orc, and she toppled onto Nim like a felled tree. Paralysis, she soon realized as the woman lay unmoving and stiff as a board atop her.

Nim wasted no time in wriggling her arms free from the burdensome weight and lodging her dagger repeatedly into the back of the necromancer’s neck. By the time she was able to crawl out from beneath the Orc, a pool of blood had formed around her, and she realized that the sounds of the shuffling zombies had disappeared to only the rattling sound of breath.

Nim looked around the room frantically in search Raminus, found him slumped against the far wall limp and disheveled. She ran to him, dropping her dagger beside him with a series of loud _clangs_ as she stabilized his head between her hands.

“Raminus!” she cried out, and he looked up at her with startled, blood-shot eyes.

“I’m alright, I’m alright!” He grimaced at the sudden yanking of his head, and Nim slowly released it, a shaky, yet relieved sigh escaping her. “I’m just trying to catch my breath.”

“Talos sake, I thought you were dead.”

“I’m out of shape, Nim. You don’t need to remind me.”

Nim gave a weak, tired laugh and settled against the wall beside him. They inspected themselves for wounds, finding no grave injuries that their restoration could not heal. She sat silently as she regained her breath, and when her heartbeat had return to a resting pace, she hobbled up the stairs and floated their packs down to where she had previously sat. They could only afford few moments of recovery. If there were necromancers beyond this chamber, it was likely that they heard the commotion raised by the fight.

“Did I see what I think I saw? Was that Master Wizard Polus using an illusion spell to aid me?” Nim asked with a simper as she took a sip from her waterskin. She passed it off to Raminus, looking quite pleased with herself. He shrugged in response, hiding his own smile behind the waterskin as he drank.

“Maybe.”

“Well, that was an auspicious start. Are you starting to see the advantages of training as an illusionist?”

“Let’s say I’ve had some time to meditate on my beliefs since our conversation at the Dark Fissure.”

“Good,” Nim said, wiping the sweat from her forehead and simultaneously smearing both her own and an amalgamation of necromancer blood across her face. “You’ve certainly become less squeamish since then.”

* * *

Hours later Nim and Raminus emerged from the fort, blood-soaked, beaten, but not empty handed. They had secured the helm from the invading necromancer’s, but the latter half of their trek was no less onerous than the first. What they found at the end only echoed the gory swath they’d traversed through the ruins of the fort. Irlav Jarol was dead and so were all the mages that had followed him there. The bloodied scene they had stumbled upon had made one thing certain however; Irlav had not sided with the necromancers. He had fought them back with his dying breath.

Now, both mages were eager to get as far from the ruins as possible, and they walked west toward the river in search for a safe spot to set up camp for the night. After dinner, the pair sat before their dwindling fire, too tired to attempt the trek back to Leyawiin through the dark. Raminus laid on his side, gazing into the twisting glow of the embers and thinking fondly of his bedroom at the University. His dinner grew stale on the plate beside him, but he hadn’t the energy nor appetite to care. Greater worries were etched at the front of his mind, but he buried them beneath layers of physical exhaustion. Tomorrow he would face the tragedies of today as he explained what they had found in Fort Teleman to Hannibal Traven. But tonight, with his eyes flickering open and closed, open and closed, he thought of only quiet, blissful sleep.

“Will you be up much longer?” He asked Nim groggily. “I think I’ve reached the limits of consciousness.”

“I can get the fire if you want to turn in,” she replied, poking at a crackling log with the blunt end of a long stick.

Raminus nodded at the offer, and then crawled into his tent. It was close enough to the heat of the fire to provide a comforting warmth, and for that he was grateful. Cold air wisped through the tattered canvas, and the ground below his thin bedroll was littered with small pebbles that jabbed into his spine. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been camping. In fact, he wasn’t sure he had been camping at all since he joined the University, though he did remember once enjoying this as a boy. Now his aging body creaked and sighed at the cold, hard surfaces, but soon enough, he grew numb to the discomforts and his minded quieted too.

Nim sat alone at the edge of the fire ring listening to the tidal lapping of the Niben as it drew and receded along the shore. Though her skin was pink and hot from sitting so closely, she felt a chill run through her veins as she thought of Irlav and all the young mages that had died believing they were doing what was right for the guild, for the safety of Cyrodiil. It pained her that she had once again arrived too late to protect them. And what she been doing instead? Hiding from the Dark Brotherhood, running from her deviant sins.

She wandered down to the water’s edge, all the while shooing off the mudcrabs that trailed her. They stayed a close distance away, watching her and drawn by the scent of dried blood on her skin. The night was far too cold for bathing, but she crouched beside the riverbank and scrubbed at the soot and blood coating her arms and face. She picked up a porous river stone and scrubbed and scrubbed and even when the last of the grime had been washed away, she scrubbed harder. Harder and faster until her skin was red, raw, and burning beneath the abrasion.

Shivering as the wind picked up, Nim made her way back to the fire ring and doused it until only crackling wood and sizzling orange cinders remained. She wrapped her arms around herself and stared through the haze of smoke at the two tents positioned side by side. Her bones ached from the cold and exhaustion, and as the wind whipped around her, her heart grew heavy with an unbearable loneliness.

She looked down at her red, painful hands. Hands that she had offered up in prayer, hands that healed and embraced friends she loved and lived for. They were hands that stole, and brewed poisoned narcotics, hands that had ended life without remorse. It was unlike her to feel this feeble and pathetic, not when she had spent so many years living freely in the shadow of avarice. So what had changed? Why now did she feel so monstrous and repellent?

She thought of life before the Mages Guild and Morndas evenings with Methredhel and Amusei as they drank on the dock edge bragging about their latest heists. Those were simpler days of scraping by on adrenaline and pipe dreams, like the ones she had spent with J’rasha when she was still brewing skooma for the Renrijra Krin. He came to her mind less frequently these days, and she suspected her grieving had ended when she avenged his death. In that moment, however, she missed the fantasies they would whisper to each other as they painted a vibrant, hopeless future together. At least she had dreams of her own back then.

Nim knew she wasn’t alone now. It would be an unfounded lie to say that there weren’t individuals in her life that accepted her despite the secrets they knew. She cherished Fathis for that, for his eccentricity and his cavalier attitude toward her sordid past. Although she had only been back in Cyrodiil for a few days, she missed him and the blissful fugue state of the Shivering Isles that left her oblivious and uncaring of the tragedies that plagued her mortal life. But even a man like Fathis could have his limits. What if he knew that she was responsible for the death of Countess Alessia Caro? Would he accept her then?

And now the one group of individuals who had welcomed her despite those vile exploits were fated to die at her hands. It made her sick with nauseating guilt. She thought of Tienaava and Ocheeva and their misguided loyalties. Poor Antoinetta, who loved so unapologetically. Beautiful M’raaj Dar who never liked her, and she didn’t blame him.

Would Vicente and Lorise forgive her when all was said and done? She wondered what life would be left for them after the Sanctuary was purged, if they’d ever leave Cyrodiil like Vicente promised. She’d give anything if it meant they’d stay together, if she could just lose one more sparring match and laugh blithely and without consequence at her failure over morning coffee.

Nim rose to her feet and looked on at the tents before her. She stepped forward into the billowing smoke that rose from the campfire ring and choked as it filled her lungs. She cleared her throat with a hoarse cough and tasted ash on her tongue. She thought of Lucien. The memory of him felt like falling.

Nim rubbed the goosebumps rising on her shoulders, and she thought of his hands searing across her skin as she beckoned him closer. Because he willed it or because she wanted it, she did not know. The uncertainty gouged a hole into her stomach. He would like to see her like this, bloodied and bruised and sleepless. Perhaps it was true, what he had said to her last night.

She stepped forward and cringed as a bitter stab of shame twisted through her. She was alone with nothing but the swallowing hole consuming her from the inside, and she felt like she was falling.

* * *

Raminus had been dozing off for not half an hour when he heard the rustle of canvas at the foot of his tent. He peered out through the flaps with swollen, narrowed eyes to find Nim silhouetted by the glow of dying embers.

“Can I stay with you tonight?” she asked, the words watery. Raminus’ sleep-filled eyes grew round and white. “For the warmth, I mean. It’s so cold in my tent. I’ll bring my blanket.”

“Oh,” he replied, dumbfounded. “Sure.”

Nim disappeared for a moment and then returned with her wool bedding. She squeezed into the corner of the small tent, throwing her bedroll down and spreading her blanket atop them. She took her time adjusting herself, every now and then bumping her head on the Bloodworm Helm resting on the ground directly above her. A respectable sliver of empty space lay between them when she finally rested back against her pillow.

“Thanks,” she whispered and settled down against the furthest edge of the bedroll that she could manage to fit into.

“Yeah.”

Raminus tried very hard to return to sleep, but for reasons readily apparent to him, he found himself quite awake listening to the rustle of covers from the woman beside him. Her breaths were soft, barely perceptible if not for the condensation that formed as it mingled with the wintery air. He couldn’t remember the last time he had laid next to a woman. He certainly wouldn’t have thought it would occur under circumstances as grim as these.

Minutes passed, and they were made longer by the pitch blackness, her silence, and the tautness growing in his stomach. Was he supposed to do something? Did she want him to do something?

“Nim?”

“Yes?” She gave a trembling reply. Her voice was strained and hollow in his ears, frail enough to shame a mouse. As hard as she tried to conceal it, she sniffled, and Raminus suspected she was on the verge of crying.

“Are- are you okay?”

Silence and the faint fog of her breath was the only response.

Raminus cast a weak starlight and turned to face her, found her buried in her blankets and quivering.

“I was too late again,” she mumbled through the covers. “Mucianus, Volanaro, and now Irlav. I’ve failed them all.”

The small voice that spoke from beside him was a haunting whisper that resonated only despair. He had seen her cry once before in the Council chambers after Bruma. She had wept on his shoulder. It had been a visceral surge that spilled forth without restraint, but this was not like that. This voice belonged to a husk of the woman he had fought beside earlier today.

“There was nothing we could have done differently,” he assured her with honesty so sober it startled him. “We left as soon as the reports came back.”

“I could have quarreled less with the Council. Maybe Irlav wouldn’t have left if I hadn’t acted like such a belligerent child during your meetings.”

“Irlav treated you harshly too. No one finds you culpable for responding the way you did.”

Nim's eyes prickled with the threat of traitorous tears, and she swallowed, her throat dry. She couldn’t do this again. She couldn’t cry in front of him and have him cradle her with soft sympathies and pity. So why, oh why, had she crawled into his tent, and why now was she still talking?

“But I should have—"

“There was dissension among the Council long before you joined the guild. That’s what happens when you split power between too many strong personalities.”

“If I only—”

“The conflict was inevitable.”

“But—"

“Stop.”

The calmness of his voice brought her to silence. She peeked out from her bedroll, her round tear-brimmed eyes glistening in the watery light. Raminus watched as she stifled a wavering breath and sighed deeply before continuing. 

“I’m not unsympathetic to your sorrows,” he said softly, “but you must stop internalizing all this guilt. Tell me what this regret accomplishes besides fanning the flames of self-hatred. It will consume you if you let it.”

Nim blinked away her tears quietly. They rolled down toward her pillow in a cool, slow trail. “I feel the need to take responsibility,” she said.

“Do you know who takes responsibility for all the controversy and destruction that has plagued us this past year? The Council does. The Arch-mage does. When all of Cyrodiil turns their eyes to the Mages Guild for an explanation as to why so many have needlessly died at the hands of Necromancers, it is Traven and I who answer. It is our responsibility. It’s suffocating sometimes, to know how differently thing could be if only a different decision had been made. But that is my burden to bear, Nim, not yours.” He paused and rolled onto his back where he stared forward at the canvas roof with a crooked, pained expression. “What about all the times I’ve watched you venture off into danger without knowing when or if you’d return? Do you know how many times I’ve had to do that for others, some who eventually gave their lives in the end? I’m not blameless. Sometimes I lay awake at night too.”

“Oh, Gods. I’m so sorry,” Nim whimpered. “I haven’t once asked how this has affected you, and you’ve been at the forefront this whole time. I- I’m terribly self-absorbed.”

“You’re not. No one can do the things you’ve done for the guild without acting selflessly.”

Nim frowned, his insistence only making her feel worse. “I’ve been treating you like an emotional compost bin. It isn’t right.”

“It’s fine. I’m quite used to it.”

“You’re used to being a compost bin?”

“No,” Raminus replied. “I mean that I prefer listening to others rather than speaking about myself. The rest of the Council, we don’t really discuss the toll our positions take on our emotional well-being. Everyone expects us to remain grounded and stoic. I suppose I’ve grown into my station.”

Nim poked her head further out of the bedroll and wiped away the wet trail that glistened on her cheek. “There are people that would listen, Raminus. You can talk if you want to. Bothiel considers you her best friend. And me, you can always share with me. Perhaps I haven’t been practicing enough empathy. I’ve been distracted lately. But I promise you that I care. You’ve always been so composed and even-tempered around me. I guess I assumed you never let these tragedies loom over you as I did.”

“I’m just not very good at talking about them,” he told her. “I don’t like the idea of burdening others with worries they can do nothing about.”

“Do I burden you with my sorrows?”

“No, of course not. I can handle them.”

“Do you think I can’t handle yours?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You dropped an Orc on me today,” she reminded him. “I could handle it.”

“Yes, you could,” Raminus nodded looking slightly ashamed. “I really thought she’d fall over on her side.”

Nim shrugged and gripped the edge of her blanket, tugging it away so her whole face was visible. “Better than letting her burn me to ash. I hope one day I can do the same for you.”

“Drop an orc on me?”

“Yeah,” she murmured. “If it keeps you alive. I want to be there for you like you are for me.”

“You are here,” he smiled and turned his head to face her, “and for what it’s worth, it’s been a few very difficult years for me too. This may have been the darkest one yet. But it’s gotten significantly brighter since I’ve met you.”

“It has?”

“It has.”

Nim felt her heartbeat echoing in her ears and sidled closer to him, scooting to the near edge of her bedroll and closing the empty space between their bodies. In the fading glow of the starlight spell, her breath rose in wispy puffs that swirled and dissipated around them.

Raminus watched the rapid fluttering of her lashes, dark and wet, as she blinked. “You know that I’m keen on you,” he said.

“You are?”

“You know that already.”

Nim felt her cheeks flush. “But I like to hear you say it.”

“I’m keen on you. There, I said it again.”

The thudding in her chest felt louder now, so loud she was certain Raminus could hear it. She reached out and pulled back the flap of her bedroll, shifted closer until she felt his breath blow back the fine hairs on her forehead. Raminus did the same, though his movements were much slower, hesitant at first. Only thin layers of clothing separated them, and Nim waited motionless and silent with her hands pressed flat against his chest.

The starlight spell above them winked out of existence and Nim found herself staring into velvet darkness as she searched for any discernable feature of Raminus’ face. The wind whistled, blowing a stray draft through the open flap of the tent that made her shudder. She reached out a hand, found the bridge of his nose and padded her way down his cheeks. He twitched as her fingers landed, icy and soft like snowfall.

“Where are your lips?” she asked and then found herself drawn into his arms, his hands in her hair guiding her toward them.

Raminus was warm and soon so was she. Her lips, her cheeks, her burning, hammering heart. She thought she would melt if that moment lasted any longer, but as his hands travelled beneath her shirt and grazed the bare skin of her back, she had never felt so corporeal and whole before. Her body went weak as the building anticipation lifted. She was morning glory unfurling in the sun, winding around him as his mouth moved insistent upon hers.

What was gentle swiftly grew feverish, and the air between them became heavy with warm, brittle breath. It was crippling at first, the sensation of his roaming hands tightening on the contours of her body. They wandered freely across valleys, peaks, ridges that he had never touched before, and her mind was white, hot, and empty as void. Nim kissed a trail down to the pulse of his neck, focusing only on the stifled groans Raminus murmured against her temple. She wrapped a leg around his hips, pulled him flush against her. She writhed, a moan slipping past her lips as she savored the weight of him leaning in, the feel of him pressing against her.

But just as soon as it all had started, Raminus paused, slipped his hand out from under her clothing, and drew away.

“Nim, I-” he stammered dryly and reached up to cup her face in his hands. He pressed his nose to hers, his breathing shallow. “Perhaps we should try to get some rest.”

“What?” she asked with a laugh that fell and faded as he maintained his silence. Her face pinched in confusion. “You don’t want to finish what we’ve started?”

“That- that’s not true. What I meant was—”

Nim gasped and the small jump she made against his body made the words die in his throat.

“Raminus, are you… saving yourself for marriage? Is that why you don’t want to continue? Is it because—"

“No! Not that at all.” Raminus felt his face flush furiously warm for a very different reason now, and he was thankful that the dark concealed how mortified his expression had become. Did she really think he was a virgin? Did he give that impression to everyone? He was out of practice, sure, but he didn’t think his technique so novice and clumsy. He had been married once, for Talos sake!

“Oh,” Nim mumbled. “But then I don’t understand.”

“I mean that I may have acted too impulsively. I don’t want our first intimate moments together to be like this.”

Nim bit her bottom lip and pulled her legs back to her body, making herself small in his arms. “Like what?” she asked, more confused than disappointed.

“Like… a spectacle for the mudcrabs.” He pointed out at the billowing opening of their tent where four mudcrabs sat dimly illuminated in the moonlight, staring with glowing eyes while pulling discarded dinner scraps into their maws so slowly it was distressing. “Also this helm behind us reeks of death, and I’m reminded that I pulled it off the last person who wore it. And, well, I’m worried that you and I have experienced quite a lot today. We’re very vulnerable right now. I wouldn’t feel right about it.”

“Oh.”

After a prolonged moment of stillness, Nim sat up and crawled toward the entrance of the tent. Raminus watched with his heart in his throat, certain she was about to take her leave, but instead, she fastened the canvas flaps and sat back on her knees as a heavy languor filled the air. It felt thick in his lungs, almost too thick to breath in.

“Gods, I’m an idiot, aren’t I?” He whispered into the darkness. Even though Nim had left his side, the space around him felt constricting. He felt like he was swallowing sand with every new sentence he choked out.

“Don’t say that,” Nim muttered, her voice gentle and airy.

She looked back at the pile of bedding through straining eyes, saw a black, amorphous shape where Raminus lay. She had cried in front of him again, quieter and more restrained than she had that day in the Council Room, but somehow these muted tears made her feel frailer and feebler than when she had screamed them. Perhaps Raminus had seen her this way too, thought her too fragile and broken, too desperate a thing to risk leaning into.

“Would it be better if I left?” she asked him. He was silent for some time before replying.

“Do you want to leave?”

Nim bit down painfully on her lip. She had let those pitiful thoughts come back to taunt her again, and she shook her head, trying to clear it. He had been honest with her. He had been soft and kind, and all she could do was feel sorry for herself. She really did treat him like an emotional compost bin.

Nim returned to the bedroll beside Raminus and sidled up to his chest, guided by the heat he radiated. She sighed softly and welcomed the empty vacuum that greeted her when she closed her eyes. “I’m sorry I’m so dramatic.” She felt an arm wrap around her back, a gentle kiss against the top of her head.

“I don’t mind.”

The heartbeat beneath her ear was a calm, steady cadence. It reminded her of white, cresting waves and their break along the shoreline, the sound of bird wings striking effortlessly against the air. “I understand what you said, truly. It’s been a long, grueling day for both of us. You’re right. Sleep would do us well.”

Raminus nodded into her hair, his hand stroking lightly on the back of her neck. “When we go back to Leyawiin tomorrow, I think you should take a carriage to Anvil.”

“What about the helm?”

“I can bring word back to Traven. You’ve been on your feet for a long time now, and I think the calm and quiet would do you well.”

“Really, are you sure?” Nim raised her head as though to look at him, found only darkness and the brush of his hair against her nose. “What about Caranya?”

“Yes, I’m sure. You haven’t been home in months, and you need to rest before we do anything. Please go home. I’ll send word to you from the University.”

“Raminus, if I’m needed, I want to help. I’m on the Council too now.”

“What you need right now is the comfort of a familiar bed and a warmer climate. When we know more about Caranya’s whereabouts, I’ll tell you, but for now go home to a real mattress with thicker blankets.”

“Oh. Okay then.”

She fell asleep with her arms around his chest, his heartbeat like a metronome at her ear.

* * *

He awoke before her, and when Nim rose and poked her head out of the tent, she found that most of the camp had already been packed away. Raminus was eager to return their news to Traven, and then the Guild would soon learn of another devastating loss. If the necromancers could kill a member of the Council, who couldn’t they touch? It was a sobering thought made bleaker in the cold light of the morning. They journeyed south to Leywaiin quietly beneath the pale rays of Magnus.

Nim was thankful that the coach to the Imperial City was scheduled earlier in the day than the one to Anvil. She had no intention of taking it back home, not yet, but Raminus couldn’t know that. He had offered to wait with her, but she shooed him onto the carriage as subtly as she could. They parted ways, a small kiss shared between them that to Nim felt both too chaste for her longing and too bold to be made in public. She couldn’t risk the knowledge of their relationship falling into the wrong hands, and lately, nowhere felt private to her anymore.

With Raminus gone, Nim sat along the edge of the murky pond where she had slain Phillida and strung her bow. She still had business in Leyawiin after all.


	34. Blood and Light, She Sheds

**Chapter 34: Blood and Light, She Sheds**

It was well past midnight when Nim arrived in Cheydinhal and made her way through the clean, cobbled streets of the city’s western residential district. Lorise’s house stood bare, the ivy stripped away by winter’s cold rasp and the windows frosted with a crystalline glaze. She approached hesitantly with news that sunk in her chest like a rock being swallowed into Lake Rumare. The Purification had begun, and Lorise was right. Telaendril had been an easy mark.

She knocked, rapping her gloved knuckle against the door, softly at first. No reply. She knocked again a bit harder. Again.

Nim wondered if it was too late in the night to be making a house call. Perhaps Lorise had already retired to bed. She briefly debated scaling up to the second-floor balcony to check if anyone was home and stepped away from the front porch to survey the best footholds. Lorise had said to meet her and Vicente tonight, and she didn’t want to risk returning in the morning. What if another assassin from the Sanctuary spotted her in the daylight? She wasn’t sure what the rest of her brothers and sisters knew of her absence, and truthfully, she hadn’t given much thought to an excuse.

Finally, the door creaked open revealing darkness broken only by the pale Breton man engulfed within it.

“Vicente?”

The man ushered her inside and bolted the door behind her before quickly sweeping Nim into an embrace. A cold, comforting embrace that she gladly returned.

“By Sithis, you’re a mad woman,” he said as he held her tightly in his arms. “You must be out of your Godsdamned mind to pull off something as foolish as you did.”

“I think I am,” she told him, her voice strained as the air was crushed from her lungs. “I must have been dropped on my head as a child.”

Vicente chuckled softly and set her down. “It was brave. Godlessly foolish, but brave.”

Nim glanced over her shoulder and around the darkened house, found no sign of light or life from the floor above them. She slipped off her glove and blew hot breath into her palms as she rubbed them together. “Where is Lorise? I thought we were all meeting here tonight.”

“Her Speaker has called her away for an indefinite amount of time. They’ve been working tirelessly to establish their sanctuary in Kvatch.”

“Oh, Kvatch,” Nim said with a grimace and allowed a starlight spell to illuminate the room around them. “I suppose I shouldn’t be so surprised it’s come to that.”

“No?”

“I imagine we’re paying a significant sum to convince the authorities to turn a blind eye. Count Goldwine never minded corruption as long as it lined his pockets.”

Vicente quirked a curious brow. “Speaking from personal experience?”

“I, uh, grew up there. Spent the better part of my childhood working in the Castle after the orphanage was torn down to erect that colosseum. You learn a lot about the way the world works when you see how nobility lives behind closed doors. Anyway.” Nim gave a one-shouldered shrug and buried her hands into her pockets. “At least Lorise will have a pretty excuse for all the time she spends there.”

“That may be the most you’ve ever told me about your past,” Vicente said, his brows still raised but this time in mild surprise.

“That can’t be true.”

“I think it is,” he maintained. “I would have enjoyed learning more about what your life was like before you joined us. It’s a shame we haven’t the time.”

Nim looked at him skeptically. “What do you mean we haven’t time? After this is over, we’re getting out of Cyrodiil. You promised me.”

Vicente replied with a gentle, reassuring smile. “Of course, my dear. I only meant our time together in the Sanctuary has been cut short. With you and Lorise both serving as Silencers, we’ll be separated more often than not.”

“Oh. Right. And what about you? What will happen to you after the sanctuary is… no more?

He gestured toward a pair of chairs set before the empty fireplace. He found his seat, nodded at the empty chair beside him as he beckoned Nim to join. “Come, let us sit and speak on what you must do next.”

Nim approached, a worried expression on her face as she sat down. “Vicente, you didn’t answer the question.”

“I’ll get to it in time,” he assured her with a flippant wave of his hand. “There are more important matters to discuss first. Lorise relayed to me everything that you told her before you left. If I understand correctly, you have been ordered to kill every last one of the assassins that call the Cheydinhal sanctuary home, and despite your untimely departure, the Black Hand still expects you to complete the rite. Is that correct?”

Nim nodded and pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders as she staved off her shivering with a wave of magical warmth. “That’s what Lucien said.”

Vicente was silent for a moment. He sat still as stone, hands folded in his lap, and looked over her in deep thought. “Here,” he said at last and retrieved a folded parchment from the breast pocket of his shirt. “It’s a list of everyone’s last assigned contract and their location. If you leave here quickly, you may be able to catch Teinaava on the road. Antoinetta and M’raaj-Dar left a few days ago. Your best chance would be to wait for their return. Ocheeva will remain in the Sanctuary for at least the rest of Evening Star. Gogron—”

“I understand,” Nim cut in softly. She felt Vicente’s eyes on her as she read quietly through the list. “Where do they think I’ve been all this time? Won’t they be suspicious?”

“They think you were on a special assignment for Lucien. I suppose it’s not untrue. I’m afraid that is all the aid I can offer.”

“I- I’m sorry that it came to this.”

Vicente shook his head. “It is out of your hands. Now, it is out of mine. I trust you’ll send them swiftly to the Dread Father.”

“Of course,” she replied quickly and cleared the climbing brambles that dug their thorns into her throat. “What will you do?”

“I will proceed with business as usual. Find me when you have finished.”

“And then?” she asked, eyes wide in anticipation. Vicente remained quiet and unflinching. “Then I’ll fake your death?”

“Find me when you are finished,” he repeated and offered a small smile. “I will take care of it all.”

Nim frowned, his answer leaving her less than convinced. “But will they believe us? What if they know that I’m lying?”

“They won’t know anything. Trust me, please. If everyone else is dead, what reason would they have to suspect that I have been spared?”

“I don’t know, Vicente. If anything goes wrong, they will come for all of us.” Nim squeezed her eyes closed and swallowed down the burning fear. “We could still leave. We could—"

“Look,” he urged her. “You trust me, don’t you?”

She glanced up and met his calm, pale eyes resting reassuringly on hers. He was still smiling that easy, gentle smile.

“I do.”

Vicente reached out and stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. “Then finish the Purification. While I have no doubt in your abilities, it is more important that you do not question your actions moving forward. Know yourself. Know what you are capable of.”

He stood to guide her to her feet and wrapped an arm over her shoulder as he walked her to the front door. Nim drew a deep breath as she collected herself. Despite the bitterness of winter, the fireless house, and the cold arm resting around her, she felt a soothing warmth bloom within her chest as Vicente leaned over to place a kiss against the top of her head.

“We will find each other afterwards,” he promised her. “Now go.”

* * *

“What have you done to me?”

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. If Antoinetta hadn’t bent down at just the wrong moment, the arrow would have struck its target truly without sending her into a panicked sprint. Nim notched her bow and aimed again. She shot twice, each striking her target below the neck as Antoinetta leapt over fallen logs and twisted through thorned brush to get away. Nim knew the wounds would be fatal given the poisoned tips of her arrows, but if she didn’t reach Antoinetta soon, she would meet a needlessly prolonged death.

Nim followed the blood trail until she found the woman stumbling through the forest. The Breton clutched her side in agony as she crumpled to the leaf-litter at the foot of a red maple tree. Warm, viscous blood flowed over her hand from the arrow wound below her ribs and painted the brown, lifeless leaves in crimson. Antoinetta’s chest grew heavy, her breathing strained. She pulled her hand away, found her palm coated so thickly that no skin was visible beneath the dark, red stain.

“Why?” She croaked, inching herself further from Nim until her back was pressed up against the tree trunk. Her legs had grown weak from the poison coursing through her veins, and she found herself unable to right herself as Nim drew nearer.

These were supposed to be clean kills, Nim cursed herself, like the ones she had previously carried out. Teinaava’s assassination had gone as well as she could have hoped. Swift and painless as an arrow through the skull could be. M’raaj-Dar had proved trickier. He had spotted her with a detect life spell that was far broader in range than she thought possible. He had only enough time to send one strong frost spell crashing into her before she countered with a silencing hex. The end followed soon after.

But now Nim stood in front of an immobilized Antoinetta, her blonde hair coated in blood, dirt, and tears as it clung to her cheeks. Antoinetta reached for the dagger at her side with pain twisting on her face only to watch as it was ripped away from her by a telekinesis spell. Nim crouched beside her, ebony dagger brandished, and Antoinetta thrashed with the last of the ever-diminishing energy that flowed out through her trickling blood.

“Antoinetta, please stop,” Nim begged her. “It is going to be so much more painful this way.”

“Nim, I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?"

“It was an order,” she retched out. “I must.”

“Tell me, is it true? We’re being purified.” Nim nodded and watched as Antoinetta let her head hang limp against the tree trunk. Choked sobs spilled hopelessly down her cheeks and rang with a haunting echo across the dead winter morning. “Why?”

“I wish I knew. I wish there was another way.”

“Who ordered you? Who?”

“You know.”

“He chose to save you,” Antoinetta cried. “We’re being purified, and he chose you. I knew you would be the end of us. I knew it in my bones.”

Nim felt a cold pang twist around her entrails as static filled her head. She laid her hand against the woman’s leg as she readied a paralysis spell. “Please don’t struggle anymore. This doesn’t have to be so painful.”

Antoinetta lurched away from her grasp, but without the strength to hold herself up, she crashed against the forest floor and clawed into the hard, frozen soil. Nim let the spell flow. She swallowed stiffly, tightened the grip on her blade.

“Wait,” Antoinetta gurgled out. “Not yet. Please. I don’t want to die like this, Nim. I'm so scared. I don't want to be alone. Please, we were friends. Don’t kill me this way.”

Nim paused. The sting of tears burned behind her eyes, and she grabbed Antoinetta’s hand. It trembled weakly, the skin under her finger nails a pale, lifeless blue. “I’m so sorry that it came to this,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen to you.”

“It doesn’t matter if you are,” Antoinetta rasped out, and a trickle of blood ran down the side of her mouth to the dirt beneath her head. “Nothing matters now. Just… tell me about something beautiful, please. I want to die thinking about something beautiful.”

Nim faltered before sitting back on her knees. “Have you ever been to Anvil?” she asked and combed her fingers through blonde locks matted with dirt, brambles and scarlet blood.

The color drained from Antoinetta’s lips with each passing moment, and when she spoke her lips barely parted.

“No.”

“The ocean shines like glass down there, and the sand is fine and soft and always warm beneath the sun. At dusk the beach is a burning opal, and the sea breeze can cleanse any malady with its salted mists.”

Antoinetta’s eyes focused far into the barren canopy, her lids flickering open and closed as she fought off Sithis’ call. “I think I can see it.”

“The waves roll gently across the sand on summer days. It’s calming to sit before them at dawn, or in the late hours of the evening when all the sailors have gone to bed. When it’s just you and the ocean, listening as the swell draws closer and recedes. And in the winter, when the wind rises, the waters crest to a white, churning froth, and the waves are so strong they’ll carry you far into shore if you let them take you.”

“I hear them,” Antoinetta whispered, a smile quivering on her lips. The weak trembling of her hand quieted in Nim’s palm. “I hear the waves.”

“Your turn,” Nim choked out as tears spilled over the brim of her eyes and onto Antoinetta’s forehead. She wiped them away, but the burning remained like a silent scream rattling in her skull. “Tell me about something beautiful.”

Antoinetta stared into the forest of bare, leafless branches, into the slivers of sunlight spilling through them. Her vision faded, black spots consuming all that existed in her periphery, even Nim. She tried to speak, but the words died on her tongue, and even if she could whisper life back into them, she could think of nothing except the crashing of waves around her. And Lucien. He stood there at the back of her mind, eyes like hard oak always looking past her, looking through her as though she were nothing but a passing plume of smoke.

* * *

Nim entered the Sanctuary as silently as she could, the creak of the well grate the only indication of her presence. She peered around the edges of the cracked stone wall and found the main hall empty and silent save the shuffle of bones and tiny feet scampering toward her. Schemer approached the well, sniffing her eagerly, and she bent down to offer him a small morsel of stale, dried venison that she hadn’t finished on her travels. In between soft pats and scratches, the sound of a creaking door caught her attention. Nim looked up to find Lucien entering from the far hallway, and when he saw her, he stopped.

The Speaker stared for a heartbeat’s length, brows quirked curiously as she held on to Schemer with ferocity despite the rat wriggling uncomfortably in her grasp. He began a slow walk toward her. The initial surprise of finding her there in his Sanctuary faded quickly, and his expression grew intentionally austere.

“What good fortune it is to find you here, Sister,” he said coolly.

Nim rolled her lips inward, watching as he drew closer and wondering if she should step out from the well before he backed her into it. When at last he stood in front of her, she looked up from her still crouched position and offered a weak, lopsided grin as Schemer darted away.

“Hello.”

“Stand,” he beckoned her, and she rose without protest. His eyes flitted over her worn appearance. Disheveled hair, winter-dry skin, splotches of rusted blood across her tattered green cloak. She bore little resemblance to the woman he had found sleeping so blissfully in the Tiber Septim Hotel last week. No longer clean or polished or touched by that Dunmer man and his godless wealth. She looked like she had been busy since they last spoke. She looked like his Silencer.

Nim shivered as a draft of wind blew down the grate and kissed the skin along the back of her neck. The long moment of silence grew stiff and uncomfortable, but she held his stare. Her expression fell to a familiar stolid slate, at which Lucien grinned. His eyes felt like probing knives searching for the softest, most pliant flesh to sink into.

“What brings you by?” She asked him, eager to break his routine attempt at intimidation.

“Appointments to keep with my Executioners.”

“They’re here?”

“They shouldn’t be.” He stepped closer, and Nim brought her hands to his chest, pushing against him as he backed her into the ladder. “It ends tonight. No more delaying. This is it, your final chance.”

“Lucien, I’ve been—"

“I expect you at Fort Farragut first thing in the morning, and if you are not there, I will assume you have failed me. If, however, the deed is not done, yet I find that you are still alive, there will be no hellfire wide enough to stop me from tracking you down. If you run again, I will find you. And when I do, Nimileth, you will meet a death so unspeakably beautiful that I think I just might weep.”

Her eyes went wide, fingers curled around fistfuls of his robe. Lucien stared down at her, scanning across her face as he attempted discern whether her silence was due to shock or fear. Nim didn't keep him in suspense for much longer. She blinked and the mild expression in her face melted away to a blasé smirk.

“Such a shame then that I continue to starve you of your fantasies.”

Lucien cupped her face in his palms and her grip on his robes tightened. He leered down at her with a pang, like hunger, churning deep behind his eyes. “Don’t get presumptuous with me. I will drag you to the Void with my last breath if I so need to.”

Nim squirmed in his hands, and he released her before the heat rising in his blood grew maddening. She darted away swiftly, squeezing past him until she stood outside of the well. Lucien straightened his robes and turned to face her, met eyes so dark they looked black in the shadowed lighting.

“But you say it won’t come to that,” he continued. “Tell me why.”

“Because this is all that remains of your Sanctuary. What do you think I’ve been doing since we last spoke?”

Lucien arched a brow, and though his smile did not falter, his heart lurched forward in his chest. He thought Teinaava, realizing he had not seen him since last Loredas. He thought of Ocheeva falling asleep now in her bed and recalled the last smile she had flashed him, a smile so bright it rivaled Masser in full. Lucien chewed at the corner of his bottom lip, felt the stirring in his stomach grow abrasive.

“I see,” he mumbled. “Forgive me, Sister. I’ve underestimated you yet again.”

Nim brushed her hair over her ear and stared at him with all the warmth of a river stone. “You’re forgiven.”

“I will still expect you in the morning. For now I think it best I take my leave.”

She nodded, but before she could turn away, Lucien took hold of her wrist. He pulled her toward him and rested a hand on her shoulders, forced her eyes to his as he tilted her chin.

“The Night Mother blesses you,” he said, voice soft, nearly a croon against her ear. Nim nodded again, looking suddenly a bit flushed, and Lucien smiled. “Tomorrow, we will have much to discuss about our future.”

He vanished out the well exit just as quickly as he had appeared, and Nim waited at the bottom of the ladder until the grate slammed shut. The whistling of late night wind swept down the stone-lined hole and across her face. She waited until the hallway grew still and quiet save the creaking of bones, and the scamper of tiny feet across the floor.

* * *

Hours later, Nim stood in the darkened living quarters clutching the stone pillar as blood streamed down the fresh gash in her arm. Ocheeva had come quickly when she heard Gogron’s cries, and now the Argonian circled her slowly, blade drawn, as she stepped over her fallen brother’s lifeless body. After attempting to paralyze an Orc as large as Gogron, Nim only had enough magicka left to risk one strong spell and she wasn’t yet sure which one would allow her to leave this altercation alive. She squeezed her fist around her dagger and felt it slipping in her grip, palms slick with her own warm blood.

Ocheeva continued to circle, and Nim focused all of her energy on the woman’s footwork, the subtle clench of her leg muscles, the flick of her wrist as she anticipated when the next attack would come. Blood and sweat trickled down from the wound on her forehead, and though she tried to blink it away, her sight grew clouded, eyes stinging as the bloody trail flooded into them.

Nim dashed away just as Ocheeva advanced, the metal of her blade ringing out as it struck against the stone pillar, and she charged again. With her blurred vision, Nim could not make out where the Argonian planned to strike, but the darkness of the room aided her. She leapt aside and threw her arm out to block the blow, knocking Ocheeva partially off balance as she was pushed into the row of beds. Pain erupted across Nim’s abdomen, and she screamed loud enough for her voice to go hoarse in her throat. Clutching her side and attempting to stabilize herself, she realized that Ocheeva had managed to pierce a wound deep enough that Nim knew she was in danger of bleeding out if she did not end the fight swiftly.

The hammering of her heartbeat in her ears almost drowned out the crash of the living quarter door behind her. She watched as Ocheeva’s eyes widened, relief flooding over her startled features as she greeted whatever had just entered. Nim took the distraction as her chance to dart away and disappeared into the air as her invisibility shroud engulfed her.

Realizing that she had lost sight of her target, Ocheeva shouted, an inaudible roar of frustration and rage echoing off the walls. “Quickly, block the door,” she cried out, and Nim looked to the doorway to find Vicente rushing in. “We must not let the traitor escape! It’s Nimileth. She’s already –“

Ocheeva ended her sentence on a gurgling gasp as Vicente plunged his dagger into her throat. She fell forward into his arms and he lowered her slowly to the ground, her eyes round in shock. Her scales paled as she gaped silently at his broken expression. She died swiftly, Vicente’s hands cradling her head as the last rattled breath left her lips. 

Nim watched with an electric current coursing through her veins, mindless of the invisibility spell that had flickered out of existence and left her standing exposed with her blood dripping off her arm and to her feet. Vicente glanced up at her. Never before had she seen him look so sickly and void of life.

“Vicente,” she called out and stepped toward him, but her voice collapsed into a strangulated choke as searing pain ripped through her chest. She fell to her knees and watched as her blood joined the pool of crimson that flooded the grout of the stone floor.

Vicente knelt down beside her and pulled her mangled form into his arms. “It's alright,” he whispered, holding her head against his chest as he stroked the hair across her bloodied temple.

“I’m so sorry,” she whimpered. “They didn’t deserve any of this.”

“They lie with the Dread Father, Nim. You’ve done all you’ve been asked of.”

“What happens now? It’s done. Where do we go now?”

“It's alright,” he whispered again. “I’m here now. There is only one thing left to do.”

And suddenly Nim felt her body go rigid as stone. She tried to pull away from Vicente, but no matter how hard she tried, she remained frozen in place. Paralyzed. She attempted to whisper out a spell, but the magicka in her blood had been turned to lead and sat clogging up her arteries as she tried again and again to call upon the smallest of cantrips.

“Vicente, what’s happening to me? What- what are you doing?”

He settled her upright against the pillar, and he sat across from her, the ghost of a smile on his ashen lips.

“Listen to me. There are some things I need to tell you before you leave here tonight. The Black Hand is waiting for you to step wrong again. They expect you to fail this mission. But they are wrong. You will not.”

“I’ve already done everything I can. Look around us, Vicente. It’s only the two of us.”

“I don’t think you ever understood how thin a rope you’ve been walking upon since joining us. I’ve never met such deadly innocence nor such naïve intellect before. I will tell you how it is now.”

“Vicente—”

“Listen,” he cut in, shaking his head. Nim mumbled out in protest, but he gave her a stern, sharp look and she quieted. “The Black Hand will not tolerate another transgression from you. If they find out I am still alive after the Purification, they will come for you first and then Lorise. You will die a traitor’s death. I wouldn’t wish it upon my worst enemy.”

“Why would they find out?” Her voice grew panicked and she tasted blood rising at the back of her throat. White spots spread across her vision and she fought to keep her eyes open and focused on Vicente’s pale, pink irises despite everything in her periphery growing distant and blurred. “I could be walking on spider silk and all that would matter is that the two of you are safe. Please, let’s waste no more time. Help me up. Let’s go.”

“You and Lorise are part of the Black Hand now. What will they do to you if they find out you have been plotting against the will of Sithis to save me? No, you can still live normal lives, but if I leave this place with you, only ruin will follow. That is exactly the life that took Lorise’s family from her. What if it takes you? I cannot subject her to the same thing that her father had. Shall l live in hiding as long as the Black Hand remembers my name? I ask you, Nim, what kind of life is that?”

“But we were going to go away, remember? Daggerfall, in the spring. If you want a new life, we can do that. Why couldn’t we start anew somewhere far away from all this? What about the cherry blossoms--”

“Oh, Nim.” Vicente frowned and swept the falling hair from her face. He embraced her and she melted unwillingly under his wintry arms. “Look at me. Look at what I am. I’ve spent one hundred years of my life in hiding. Only within these walls have I ever been able to feel human again. The Dark Brotherhood has always offered me love and acceptance. Beyond this Sanctuary…what is there for me?”

“What do you mean? There’s Lorise. There’s me. What are you saying?”

“You know. You’re a smart woman. You know.”

“Vicente, I’m going to faint and bleed out if we don’t leave. We’ll talk about this with Lorise. Let’s go, please.”

“My days of running are over,” he told her, and pressed his hand against the wound on her head. A warm wave of blue light tingled across her skin as she felt a weak healing spell mend the minor wounds marring her body. The paralysis remained, and Nim could do nothing to prevent a second round of tears from spilling down her trembling chin.

Vicente pulled away from her, his face calm and certain. “I will turn and face the darkness,” he said. “We are children of Sithis. There is no other way.”

“Stop this! Stop this please!” She shrieked. “Vicente, we can leave--”

“Nimileth, you are loved. I ask that you take care of Lorise when I am gone.”

“What are you talking about? Where are you going?”

“My fate is sealed. There is no way out of this without risking her safety. I went to Lucien after you left. I told him that if he guaranteed yours and Lorise’s safety I would ensure that you returned to complete the Black Hands orders to fruition. I promised him, and in return he sent Lorise to Kvatch. And you, you will be safe with him. I admit I was harsh on him earlier. I was angry with him, and I was unkind to you because of it. But Lucien promised me he would keep you safe. He told me --”

“How could you do that?” Nim wailed. Her throat tightened, and when she tried to breath in, she felt a burning like thorned vines squeezing around her wind-pipe. “Please, tell me this is a lie Vicente, how could you? I would lay on my sword for you! Kill me then! Go and leave with Lorise, if you must! Don’t do this!”

“No,” he sighed, and his voice was so light and airy that it sounded like laughter. He shook his head, closed his eyes. “It was the only way. These are the sacrifices we must make for the ones we love. You are loved, Nimileth. My dear child, I love you so. Tell Lorise my last thoughts were of her.”

Vicente rose to his feet, and Nim watched with wild, bloodshot eyes as he drew a vial from his pocket and coated his dagger in a fiery, orange poison. She screamed and the screech across her eardrums was deafening. Vicente plunged his blade through his chest, and Nim screamed and screamed until no more sound could escape her.

The pale skin of his body cracked like dried desert clay, and from the fractures and splits came a glow as though wildfire had taken to flame inside of him. Nim fell to her side, her vision fading at the corners, and before the blood loss claimed her consciousness, she watched Vicente dissipate into nothing. She lay alone against the devouring blackness, the room illuminated only by the golden cinders that smoldered in the air as they drifted down against her cheek. They landed softer than snow, softer than mist, breaking on impact, and when the last spark of moribund light flickered out, only ash remained.

Her world faded into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sad :(


	35. How to Disappear Completely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I’m SeydaNeen, and I’m a lecherous n'wah. This is a dumpster-fire chapter that should have remained in my head. Cloying sorrows and sexual tension ahead. Enjoy what my story has devolved into. 
> 
> Title comes from the Radiohead song which I think succinctly sums up Nim’s life atm.
> 
> Thank you, good day

**Chapter 35: How to Disappear Completely**

Lucien waited at the base of the rope ladder that dangled down into his bedroom. He looked up at the open hatch, watching as the first golden streaks of Magnus’ light broke across a pale, violet sky. She should have been back long ago, he told himself. There were only three people left in the Sanctuary, only three left to purify if she had been truthful with him last night.

Perhaps she was in mourning. She was sentimental like that, and he would give her privacy in which to grieve if that’s what she desired.

He paced his fort a while longer and then returned to staring out the hatch. The stars had now vanished, and a crisp blue filled the empty spaces between the bare, swaying tree boughs and the green mountain pines. Nim had not returned. Perhaps she was at prayer. It was Sundas after all.

When Lucien allowed another uninterrupted hour to slip by, he began to worry that she had run away again. He paused, felt the air empty from his lungs as his chest tightened.

She wouldn’t.

She had told him that she wouldn’t.

The reassurance was enough to quiet the fire lacing through his veins for a short while longer. He distracted himself with mindless errands and even more mindless pacing, but just as soon as he felt himself growing comfortable, a pale, sickly doubt whispered across his mind.

_She wouldn't_, he repeated, _not again_, but the thought of her leaving gnawed its way into his skull like a boring worm, and he found himself once more standing below the hatch, staring skyward, gripping the nearest rung of the rope-ladder in his white knuckled fists.

Saddling up Shadowmere, Lucien set out toward the Sanctuary if not to find her, then to find proof that she had failed him. Not far into his journey, he came across a green cloak fluttering with the wind as it snagged along the barren branches of the forest edge. His heart skittered as he approached it. It was blood-stained, tattered along the hem. He froze.

Could she be dead?

He rode on, found Nim a few paces off the eastern most end of the Blue Road, face down in a ditch. The rustling and jostling as he lifted her up onto Shadowmere must have awakened her to fevered consciousness and she blinked up at him, her lips colorless and cracked.

“You,” she whispered as Lucien’s face became visible in the blinding light that pierced through the needles of the surrounding pines. “Don’t take me away from them. I died in that room with Vicente. Let me be there with him.”

“Shh.” He pressed a finger to her cold, blue lips. “Don’t waste any more breath.”

Nim offered up her trembling palms and he looked down, saw that they were covered in blood, dried brown and bright crimson. Dark grey smudges of ash coated the tips of her fingers and lodged itself beneath her nails. “Look at what we’ve done, Lucien. I killed them all for you.”

“Nimileth, be quiet.”

“Are you happy?”

Lucien bit his tongue. He focused instead on guiding Shadowmere home, on the wisps of fogged breath that drifted skyward, on the limp body he held in his arms.

“You’re a dwemer contraption, built of cogs and screws. You’re a hollow man made of metal.”

“You’re delirious from blood loss,” he hushed her. “It’s not long until we reach Fort Farragut. You’ll be safe there. Tell me then.”

Nim let her eyes drift closed. The clop of hooves against forest debris echoed dully in her ears until they disappeared completely from her mind.

When she awoke again, she was lying in a bed with sheets that felt cool against her warm, tacky skin. She blinked her eyes open and looked down at her body. Beads of perspiration glistened across her chest, pooled along the edges of her small clothes, and ran down her torso. Her head felt heavy and even the slight movement of turning her eyes to peer around left her aching. Despite the sweat and the burning in her cheeks, she felt a chill run through her blood. She shivered, her teeth chattering, and she tugged on the sheets that were rumpled across her legs before a hand gently guided them back down.

Nim dragged her gaze to the edge of the bed and found Lucien sitting in a chair with a jug of water and a bloodied cloth in his lap. His black hair hung loose around his face, concealing much of the grooves that crinkled his forehead as he returned to cleaning the wounds along her abdomen. In her fever-addled brain, she hardly recognized him, now in his plain clothes and wearing an expression reminiscent of concern. The end table beside him was covered in candles that bled a bright orange light under which he tended to her injuries. They glowed like a fireplace in her blurred vision, and she thought of Vicente. Her skull filled with static.

Lucien looked up and saw her half-lidded eyes struggling to remain open.

“Why am I here?” she rasped groggily as she attempted to lift herself out of bed. “Who are you?”

“Don’t get up,” he warned her, his voice low and stern. “Not yet.”

Nim slumped backwards against the mound of pillows and attempted to blink the clouds from her eyes. Her vision sharpened slowly, and she turned her neck to peer around the room. The walls seemed to be swaying, or maybe breathing. Her clothes lay in a neatly folded pile at Lucien’s feet. The blade of woe rested atop them, but her pack was nowhere to be seen. As she lay blinking, staring across Lucien’s bedroom, the static muddling her thoughts coalesced to a sharp throbbing ache. It beat across her skull like a war drum, each strike threatening to crack bone, and she pressed her fingers into her eyes to quiet the pain.

“Why didn’t you finish healing yourself in the Sanctuary?” Lucien asked, his eyes directed at the lacerations and cuts beneath his fingers. “Such recklessness is unlike you. You could have died.”

“If I haven’t died already, then that means I can’t.”

“Don’t be foolish,” he chided her. “Can you heal yourself now?” Nim opened her mouth to reply, but only a dull pained moan escaped as the pounding in her head rose in frequency. It crashed against her head like a tempest, until she swore it would deafen her. She pressed harder into her eye sockets, and Lucien pried her hands away from her face for fear of her clawing an eye out. “Nimileth, did you hear me? Are you going to heal yourself?”

“It’s true, I can’t die,” she groaned, ignoring him as she turned over in bed and buried her face into the pillow. “I’m a Daedric prince. I’m cursed, and now I am forever. And you, you’re a machine. All you have is a gyroscope inside of you.”

Her words came out muffled and garbled, but Lucien heard enough to string the sentence together. Though her wounds were no longer in critical condition, she was suffering from a high fever and severe bloodloss that had left her weak and disoriented. Lucien sighed and laid a damp cloth against her head as he left her to whatever fevered dreams consumed her. While she slept, he rummaged through his pantry, brought an armful of ingredients to his alchemy desk, and began working on a potion to bring her temperature down. From across the room, he heard her murmur more inaudible musings into the pillow. Lucien listened. Amidst the smothered whimpers, he thought he heard something that sounded like a name. A man's name.

A name not his.

Afterwards, he returned to the chair beside the bed and lifted her up against his chest to drink the freshly brewed healing potion and a few mouthfuls of water. She did so slowly, not without protest, and when he was satisfied Lucien leaned her back against the bed. When he shifted to leave, Nim reached out for him. Her weak, trembling hands tugged at the hem of his shirt, and she nestled against his hip.

“Who are you?” she repeated again.

“It’s me,” he sighed. “It’s Lucien.”

“You’re such strange metal,” she whispered and slumped over against him. “But you’re pretty. Pretty for being made of metal. In what hellfire were you forged?”

“You need to rest now, dear girl,” he replied and brushed back the blood-matted locks of her hair. “Ask me again tomorrow morning.”

He stroked the damp skin of her temples and held her face in his hands. Nim looked up at him with heavy, swollen eyes and she leaned in, pressed her ear against his chest. “I’m dreaming. None of this is real.”

“You are real. You are a dark gift from the Night Mother herself.”

“You can’t say that. You’re a machine.”

Lucien settled her back into bed and pulled the thin sheet over her. He dabbed a wet cloth against her forehead, and she reached out, pulled his hand to her cheek and whispered against it.

“Where will I go now?”

“Sithis has brought you to me,” he replied and stroked his thumb across the pale, cracked skin of her bottom lip. “You are where you belong.”

“No, look at what I’ve done to them. I- I should disappear back to Oblivion. That’s where I belong.”

“You did exactly what you were meant to. It was our Dread Father’s demand.”

“There’s nothing left of me.” She turned to face him, her face flushed with fever and the warmth of the nearby candle flame. “Look, I’m disappearing.”

“No,” he said with a small shake of his head. “You are everything and all that is left.” He smiled, but all Nim could see was the shadow darkening his face as he leaned closer to kiss her brow. “Go to sleep now. We will discuss your future when you’re rested.”

Lucien walked to the rope-ladder and made it onto the first rung when he heard Nim’s choked voice call out to him again.

“Wait. You can’t go.”

“I’m only returning to Cheydinhal to make my report on the state of the Sanctuary,” he explained. “I’ll be back shortly.”

“No. Lucien, you can’t.”

“It will take a few hours at most. You’re in stable condition. I trust you will be fine.”

“Please, don’t.”

“I must.”

“Please,” she pleaded. “Won’t you stay? I’ll vanish into nothing if you leave me here alone.”

Lucien stared down at her crumpled form, and she stared back through thick, wet lashes that fluttered languidly as though fighting off sleep. He shook his head, but she continued to stare, to wait, heedless of his refusal. She withdrew to the corner of his bed, leaving just enough space for him on the mattress beside her, and Lucien felt a fist tighten in his chest.

He returned to her, and the bed frame creaked under his weight as he settled against the headboard. Nim lifted herself into his arms, and he reminded himself that it was only the fatigue calling her to him for support.

“Hold me,” she whispered, drawing closer to his chest. Her whole face glistened in the dancing candlelight, her glazed eyes, her febrile cheeks. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder, skimming his fingers across the balmy skin there. She lay lost in reverie, and even if all her memories of yesterday would flood back to her tomorrow, Lucien envied her brief moment of oblivion.

Releasing a rough breath, he dragged his free hand down his worn, sleepless face. The orders had been fulfilled. His Silencer was neither missing nor dead, but the threat of treachery, he worried, was far from over. The Black Hand would expect his report soon, and his stomach lurched at the thought of returning to Cheydinhal to find what remained of the purification, to find Vicente reduced to ashes, Ocheeva’s glassy eyes like lifeless stones boring into him. Was the end better or worse for the other’s Nim had killed outside of the Sanctuary? He thought of Teinaava and his corpse rotting alone on the side of the road to be picked apart by wolves and carrion birds. He wondered if it had been painful.

And what of Vicente? How did he manage to convince her to go through with it all in the end?

He glanced down at Nim, the small deadly thing she was, and focused instead on the warmth beneath his palms. Nim mumbled into his chest, fevered whispers that he knew better than to pay mind to.

“There’s an echo inside you,” she murmured. “Listen to thrum of your gears grinding away.”

“Shh, tell me later,” he said, tucking the top of her head under his chin. “Be still now.”

And she was.

* * *

When Nim awoke for the third time that day, she immediately recognized that she lay inside Fort Farragut. The air was thick with moisture and the smell of dust and old blood. She’d never forget it, not after the last time she had been called here. Her skin was tepid, no longer burning, and felt stiff with the dried salt of her sweat. The nearby candle flames flickered softly from the table beside her head and she heard the faint scratches of a quill on parchment as it broke the gentle silence of the room. She opened her eyes and they flitted wearily across the chamber to where Lucien sat at his desk with a roll of parchment set before him. He was writing with intense concentration, not yet aware that she had begun to stir, and she watched him for a brief moment. It felt strange seeing him like this, in his plain clothes and his focus directed on anything besides her.

A hoarse whisper of a sound escaped her when she tried to speak, and she worked her throat with a few dry swallows to finally dislodge her voice. “What am I doing here?” she croaked out.

“You asked that already.”

“What was the answer?”

Lucien looked up from his paperwork, met Nim’s dark eyes and then returned to writing his missive. “You were impossibly stupid.”

“Oh,” she mumbled, “was that all?” She pried the sheets off of her body and stared down at the fresh scars and scratches that crisscrossed her abdomen. How did she get those, she wondered? What had happened last night?

Nim attempted to sit forward. Lucien eyed her movements cautiously as she brought a hand to the side of her head and grimaced. “Did I get trampled by a horse last night? I feel like hell.”

She raised her arms to heal herself and was relieved to feel the magicka flow freely down her body. The dull ache in her head subsided. The red scars along her torso disappeared. She breathed a deep, grateful sigh.

“Better?” Lucien asked, and Nim nodded timidly. It was obvious that he had been tending to her while she was unconscious and the thought of him watching over her in such a state of concern made her stomach lurch. She gathered her hair over her shoulder and combed through it anxiously, tugging at her amulet and the fine hairs that had become twisted around the chain. Lucien watched as her eyes grew distant. Her nose crinkled in displeasure at whatever thoughts flooded her mind, and he cleared his throat before continuing. “I found you on the side of the road this morning.”

Nim gasped silently and met him with wide eyes that glistened like glass in the candlelight. “You did? I- I don’t even recall leaving the Sanctuary.”

“What do you remember?”

“Um, I remember…” She paused and squeezed her eyes shut in concentration. “After you left, I think that I--”

And suddenly she was pressed against the floor of the living quarters, watching motionless as Vicente’s body erupted into a cloud of ash. A rattling breath escaped her, and she felt stomach acid rising to the back of her tongue.

Lucien watched as her complexion paled and shook his head. “Forget it,” he cut in. “It’s unimportant now. You’re here, and the Purification is over.”

“What-what happens now?”

“I will inform the rest of the Black Hand and await the next set of contracts. All your orders will now come directly from me. I shall send for you when I receive them.”

Lucien returned to his work and Nim nodded despite him no longer looking. She wondered if he was dismissing her. How long had she been lying here in his bed? How long had he been watching over her?

Ignoring the weakness in her muscles, she turned and let her legs dangle over the edge of the bed, her focus directed on the cool stone floor against the balls of her feet. Lucien caught her movements from the corner of his eye. He glanced up apprehensively and stood from his desk when he saw her brace herself against the edge of the bed as though preparing to stand.

“I’m not sure that’s wise,” he warned her. “You’ve lost a substantial amount of blood.”

“I need to get up sooner or later.”

“Perhaps later rather than sooner. What do you need? I’ll bring it to you.”

Nim regarded the offer skeptically but seeing as she was in no condition to refuse, she sat back against the headboard and tucked her knees to her chest. “Something to drink, and um, maybe a set of clean clothes.”

Lucien nodded and returned with a pitcher of water and several potion vials. He set them down on the end table and poured her a mug of water. “I brought your things back from the Sanctuary. I went while you were still asleep,” he said and nodded towards a brown pack on the ground at the foot of the bed. He set it beside her.

“Thank you,” she mumbled weakly and pulled her pack to her chest, the weight of it in her lap somehow providing comfort and cover that the rumpled sheets could not.

He took her empty mug and sat down on the nearby chair, watching as she fished around in her bag and retrieved a set of robes. “I brought you something else too,” he said. “I thought it might lift your spirits.”

Nim looked up as she shrugged on her sleeve, and he gestured across the room to a pile of torn rags and linen where a large grey rat lay curled up and resting peacefully. “He put up quite a fuss on the way here. I think it tired him out.” 

“Schemer?” She asked although she could see the rat plain as day. She looked at Lucien curiously. “You brought him back for me?”

“I- I thought you might appreciate a familiar face that wasn't mine.”

“Oh.” Nim stared at him, her lips parted and eyebrows raised. Lucien’s eyes flickered across her face, down to her exposed collarbones and back up to her eyes. He shifted forward, and though it was barely perceptible a movement, Nim quickly turned away and looked to Schemer. He was slumped over on his side as he slept. His chest rose and fell rapidly. With every few breaths she could see his little paws twitch and his whiskers flitter. She smiled.

“Thank you,” she finally said. “He’s a good rat.” And truthfully, she felt bad for the poor creature, to have his whole life uprooted without reason. No more dinner scraps or nights spent curled up on the foot of Antoinetta’s bed. At least he wouldn’t be alone now. Maybe he’d take well to life in Anvil.

Nim fastened the clasp on her robes and without warning, stood from the bed and stepped in Schemer’s direction. Just as quickly as she began to bound away, black spots burst across her vision, and she grew woozy, her balance waning.

Lucien clutched her shoulders before she swayed too far off her feet. “I told you,” he said, guiding her back down to the mattress, “you lost a lot of blood last night.”

His hands lingered on her shoulders, his thumbs pressing small circles against her bones. Nim blinked through the rolling fog that filled her head, and when his face was once more visible, she dropped her gaze and scratched at her cheek. “I’ll be fine.”

Lucien sat on the edge of the bed beside her. “I know,” he said and uncorked a few of the potion bottles he had set on the end table. “Take these. They should help you regain some of your strength.”

She held the slender neck of the vial in her fingers and wafted the mellow fumes toward her nose, smelled orange and traces of blackberry. “What is it? Restore fatigue?”

“Yes, just a simple brew.” She sipped it slowly, testing it with a light smack of her lips, and he smiled in amusement at her hesitation. Always so wary, even now, half naked in his care. “How is your stomach?”

“Unsettled.”

“Shall I get you something for it?”

What she wanted was a scalding cup of stoneflower tea, and the burning, silver warmth of Raminus’ voice as he told her she would be okay. She wanted to erase time back to yesterday before she shattered the promise of a future that still contained Vicente, and she wanted to see Lorise. Would she understand? Would she hate her forever for what had become of him? Nim shuddered at the memory that seared across the back of her eyelids every time she blinked. She doubted she could ever forgive herself for it.

She looked up from the rim of the potion vial and licked at her damp lips.

“Later,” she replied, shaking the glaze from her eyes, but the thought of consuming anything solid left her nauseated. What she wanted more than anything in that moment was to watch the rest of the world fall to ash and bury her beneath its ruin. “Maybe.”

They sat in silence for a while, Lucien watching, refilling her cup with water every now and then while she combed through her hair with her fingers. As the potion worked its way through her system, she felt the weariness lift from her muscles,the lingering fatigue fade away. She thought about getting out of bed again and wondered if Lucien would trust her on her own two feet. He stared down at her pensively, a tired smile on his lips, and the warm expression made her uneasy. She curled up, tucking her knees under her chin as she watched him right back.

“What are you thinking about?” She asked, and immediately regretted the question when Lucien placed his hand on hers and pulled it toward him. She followed his movements cautiously, her body rigid.

“When I saw you lying in that ditch, I thought you were dead.”

Nim released a small huff through her nose, and rolled her eyes dismissively. “What relief you must have felt.”

“It should have been a burden off my shoulders after all you’ve put me through,” he smirked back weakly, “but it wasn’t. These past months have been long and bloody, and I regret the way I’ve acted toward you, with such unrestrained aggression and impulse.” Lucien stopped himself and looked away from her. He squeezed her hand, brought it to his lips and sighed so that her palm, curled in his fist, filled with warm breath. For only a moment, Nim thought she saw the whisper of guilt creep onto his features. “While you were gone, I came to realize--”

“I was just joking,” she cut in quickly. “About you being relieved. You don’t need to explain anything to me.”

“No, I do,” he insisted.

"You really don't."

Lucien ignored her. “You see, I’ve never been very good at protecting life.”

“Well,” she snorted, “good thing it isn’t in your job description.”

Lucien narrowed his eyes at her, and she shrunk back into her sheets to avoid their sharpness. He pulled the covers away gently, so that her face was visible to him, and brushed her hair back over her ears.

“I want you to listen to me,” he said and cradled her face in his palm. Nim responded with an expressionless nod. “The Night Mother sacrificed her own children to honor our Dread Father’s demands. That is the precedent set for every member of the Dark Brotherhood, to serve Sithis above all else. I raised Ocheeva and Teinaava and look what I’ve allowed to happen.”

“It wasn’t you who killed them.”

“Do you see now?”

She shook her head and swallowed dryly.

“In accepting the invitation to join our Family, we have each invited death into our lives. With every contract we accept, we choose to skirt closer to the edge of the Void until it inevitably swallows us whole. Our souls are no longer our own. They are property of the Dread Father. They are his to consume, and that is why as a Speaker, I have never made it a priority to preserve life destined for the Void. Then Sithis brought you into my arms...”

Nim wilted into the mattress with each passing word. She turned away from his grasp, but he held her firmly in his hands. “Lucien, stop. Don't tell me this," she protested, but he would hear none of her brittle laments.

“…and for you, I will try.”

Smoldering heat seared across her cheeks, and she buried her face into the pillows where he could not see her. Why was he telling her this? Because she was his Silencer, because he had no one left? She focused on keeping her breath under control, counted to ten and down again to keep from heaving.

Was she supposed to thank him for preserving her life, for sparing Lorise? She squeezed the pillow to her chest and suppressed the scream welling in her lungs. Should she thank him for ordering her to cleanse the Sanctuary instead of taking the duty upon himself? Why was he telling her this? What purpose did it serve?

“And what do you ask of me in return?” she bit out, the words clogging in her throat and muffled through the fabric and feathered down.

“You really don’t understand, do you?” He said and tugged the pillow from her grasp to reveal a feeble glare punctuated by misery. He chuckled weakly. “Truly, Nim. I thought you more clever than this.”

“How can I understand anything you say when you’re two different people with me? I never know if you’re going to try to kill me or seduce me. I don’t understand anything that you do.”

“Seduce you?” he laughed again, heartily this time and from the depths of his belly. “Quite the opposite. If you were anyone else, I would have offered you to Sithis long ago. It’s you who’ve bewitched me. You’ve possessed me, body and soul.”

“Oh, wonderful. Now you’re intimidating me as usual.” Nim frowned and sat up against the headboard. “You enjoy threatening me. I only ever wanted you to spare Lorise. I didn’t ask you to protect me or be something you’re not. I don’t know why you’re this way with me. I’ve done nothing to you.”

Nim shook her head and pressed her hands to her eyes. She gave a soft, fatigued groan and felt Lucien shift closer, the mattress giving beneath him. He breathed deep and audibly, and his exhale blew through the thin wisps of hair at the top of her head.

“It’s not my fault,” she told him again, and when she looked up, she met his eyes, hickory brown and burning like the crackling blaze of a winter hearth. Their intensity filled her empty stomach with roiling, molten iron. “I’ve- I've not bewitched you," she reaffirmed. "I’ve done no such thing.”

“Then I must be in love with you.”

Nim froze, mouth agape as her words dissolved to foam on her tongue. Lucien didn’t bother waiting for a response as he brought one hand to the small of her back, the other lifting her chin toward him. He kissed her and meeting no resistance let his hand travel down her neck and to her shoulder where it squeezed tenderly before beginning a slow descent. The iron inside her seeped into her veins, into her lungs, stiffening until she felt she would drown in that very air.

“You don’t mean that,” she broke away, and brought her hands to his, stopping it as it rested upon her chest. “This is the grief talking.”

Lucien smiled and it was a doleful thing. He pulled Nim against his chest, hiding it from her, and he inhaled the metallic scent blood that stained her hair. He dragged his tongue across his mouth, tasted the lingering traces of blackberry and orange that remained from the potion she had drank minutes ago.

“I mean it,” he said, and traced his thumb over the brittle skin of her lips, persuading them apart and skimming her front teeth. “It’s the only thing that has prevented me from killing you. I love you.”

Nim trembled in his arms, her breath shallow and shaky, as she held onto him by the loose cotton of his shirt. His heart raced under her fingers and she squeezed tighter on the fabric in her fists, tighter until the skin stretched taut over her knuckles and paled. More unbearable heat rose to her cheeks, painting them with florid blush. Lucien pulled back to gaze down at her with eyes that were uncharacteristically gentle. Soft. Human. She turned away before she withered to nothing beneath them. 

She was shrinking and as Lucien trailed kisses across her temple, she felt smaller than on the night they met, smaller than any of the times he had her pinned beneath him with his hands constricting around her throat. He wound his fingers into her hair, and she was falling against him, her breath disappearing from her lungs as he pressed his mouth to hers and drew it from her lips.

Nim strained against his grip but did not protest when he leaned her back into the pillows. She felt his hands working the small clasp at her sternum to spread apart the collar of her robes, and when he succeeded, his mouth found the newly exposed skin of her neck. Heat travelled down her spine in waves, and she melted away under his advance. She slung her arms around his neck, bracing herself against him as he grazed a hand up her bare thigh. He hiked her robes up to her hips and a pitiful whimper escaped her. It rang in her ears, echoing with regrettable clarity, and she pulled away from him again, though his hands continued searching.

“Is this what you told your last Silencer?” she asked “When you sent her to her death, did she go believing you loved her too?” And though she could barely hear her own voice over the rush of blood in her ears, she knew Lucien had heard her plainly.

She felt the muscles in his neck tense and brushed the loose strands of his hair away from his face. She watched as his eyes widened, the haze of lust lifting as the question caught him by surprise. He scoffed at her, hot breath sweeping across her skin as his stare sharpened with a familiar venomous edge. Nim shifted below him and tried to put even a sliver of space between them, pushing herself further into the mattress. Lucien tightened his grip on her hipbones in response, and she fought against the new restraint by jerking away, attempting to wrench herself loose. Lucien only squeezed tighter.

“You’re hurting me,” she winced. 

The cold, bitter venom in Lucien’s eyes lingered for a long moment before he loosened his hold on her. He smirked, a throaty chuckle sounding through his closed lips.

“You are a beautiful, heartless thing,” he purred. 

“I’ll do what you ask of me, Lucien. I promise you, I will. Whatever games you’re playing with me aren’t necessary.”

Lucien grazed his hand across the length of her jaw, and her stomach twisted and knotted as that godless, terrifying warmth shivered through her again.

“Nothing is necessary in this life except the death that awaits us all,” he tutted. “Look at everything I have done to keep you alive when all I ever wanted was to wring this pretty, little neck of yours. How you have tempted me, Nimileth. I have spared you from that fate against my own best interest.”

“I suppose you’re expecting me to thank you,” she choked out, mindful of his hands and their covetous descent down the front of her robes.

“You reward me with such cruelty.” He smiled, and it was once again the dark, sinister leer she had grown accustomed too. “But how could I expect anything more from such a merciless creature?”

Lucien unfastened the clasps binding her robes until she lay fully bare and exposed to his roaming hands. She was much more cavalier in discarding his garments, and when they were both undressed, he laid atop her, palming her flesh and basking in the warmth of their bodies pressed flush against one another. He was slow and deliberate with his movements, hesitant to touch her any more than he already had and waited instead on her behest. Waited and waited for far longer than he thought he’d need to.

Nim blinked up at him, a million thoughts echoing through her skull, mudding her mind until it was a turbid, static sump. She tried to imagine she was somewhere else, with someone else. She tried to believe she was worthy of a love like that, of the one she longed for, but the only place more deserving of her presence than on this bed, right here beneath Lucien was six feet under the ground.

Or on the Sanctuary floor, littered with ash.

Lucien, having grown impatient, captured her mouth again and the longer she lay beneath his weight, the less inclined she was to remain still. She tangled herself in his limbs, goading him onward in hope that even the coarsest of release might prevent her from drowning in her own reflections. At least for tonight if nothing else.

Lucien responded in kind, and she held him between her knees as he bit down into her soft neck, and the pain she could focus on. The pain could blind her to all else, so she urged him further, her whimpering breaths ragged at his ear as she raked desperate, pleading fingers through his hair.

Lucien willingly obliged as he gathered her in his arms and pressed himself to her entrance. His slid his eyes shut, inhaling sharply through gritted teeth as he savored the warm, lurid pleasure, but upon reopening them, his eyes filled with surprise. Nim stared up at him unblinking, a doe at the end of one’s cross sights.

“There, there,” he teased her, “Don’t be scared of me now, not after all we’ve been through.”

Nim shook her head swiftly, eyes wide and heart hammering in her throat. “I’m not scared.”

“What then?” he asked, and he would have laughed if he didn’t find her shifting expression genuinely disquieting. What initially resembled shock thawed to horror and then revulsion. Color fled her cheeks, and suddenly Lucien wondered if she was at risk of fainting again.

“Nim?” He leaned forward and combed her damp hair back against her skull. He felt for fever with the back of his palm, but she shrugged him off, her grimace twisting again as she squeezed her eyes shut. “Nim,” he repeated. “Where have you gone?”

Nim buried her face in her hands. A choking emptiness grew in her chest and she focused on anything tangible in her surroundings. The breath hot in the cage of her palm. The bedframe creaking beneath her as Lucien shifted. His shadow darkening the tapestry of swirling light behind her eyelids.

The sickness inside her grew. It was a gnawing void and she was sure it would siphon the room into her until everything disappeared from existence.

“I- I don’t know. I feel sick,“ she heaved. “How can you act like this after what happened? I murdered them all for you.”

“Not for me,” Lucien corrected her. She squinted up at him and watched him smile, small at first, then fond and welcoming as admiration bloomed in his eyes, “for the glory of the Dread Father.”

Nim shook her head in disgust. “Everyone is gone. Don’t you care?”

Lucien was silent for a moment as he contemplated the question. His expression cooled with each passing second, and eventually he sighed softly and drew away from her, rolling onto his side.

“If I told you that I went to our Listener to plead my Sanctuary’s case, would you believe me? Would you believe that I have wept and mourned? They were my family, Nimileth, but I have faith that one day you will see these things as the rest of the Black Hand does. Everything we have done, we have done out of love.” Nim grimaced again, as though the words had pierced through her own flesh, and Lucien frowned. “Is that not what you wanted to hear?”

“No. Why are you being gentle with me now? You made more sense when you were angry all the time. Why can’t you just punish me like you always wanted to?”

“Punish you?” he laughed more out of the absurdity than genuine comedic relief. “You think I would condemn you for carrying out orders? I asked them of you.”

Nim looked up in dismay, her expression strained and eyes heavy. Her eyes burned and they might have wept if she had any tears left to shed. She leaned into his chest, and he wrapped an arm around her, stroked the bare skin of her back, uncertain of what else to do with his hands but hold her.

“I know that it pleases you to hurt me, so go on then. Be angry.”

Lucien swallowed an exasperated sigh and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Sometimes I wonder if you’ve ever listened to a word I’ve said."

"I try not to."

"Fine, I’ll entertain you. What would you have me say?”

“Tell me then how I’ve ruined everything. I’m never the one who is worse off as a consequence of my actions. I slip away and everything around me is left in pieces.”

“So you wish to make a confession, is that it?” He scoffed, a mix of humor and fading patience. “This is not a temple, and we are not monks. You won’t be able to atone for your sins, not with me.”

Nim flushed with embarrassment at how pitiful the echo of her voice sounded. She was doing it again, searching for someone to host her as an emotional leech. What a woeful, insufferable fool she was.

Lucien glanced down. He chuckled at her cheerless, abashed expression. “Poor little Nim. No remission from your beloved Gods? Pay alms next Sundas. Maybe you’ll feel better.”

“Don’t laugh at me,” she eked out. “We can’t all live so guiltlessly.”

“I’ve never once feigned contrition, and nor do I feel the need to for what has transpired,” he said with all the certainty of stone. His voice was low and hoarse, and carried an unmistakable edge of annoyance. “If you wish to return to your sullen brooding, I suppose I cannot stop you, but you forget that you chose this life. You invited death and malice into your heart when you slayed Alessia Caro. Don’t delude yourself. You weren’t born into this life. You sought it out.”

Nim had heard enough. What was she thinking to seek comfort from the most blood-thirsty man she knew? She should never have mentioned anything to him, not when she knew the depths of depravity he’d sink to for his own pleasure. But there was undeniable truth in his words. She had invited it all and for what, an inkling of power, a misguided hope to find her lost purpose? The thought sent a shiver through her core.

What had she done to her life? What had she become?

She shot him a glare. “You’re rotten at consolation, you know.”

Lucien smirked and nestled her into the crook of his shoulder as he pet her. “I will not indulge your pity, nor will I lie to you. I told you long ago, Nimileth, you don’t know the destruction you’re capable of. Now you do. If it is ruin you seek, then congratulations, my dear. You have certainly found it.”

Nim fell quiet and occupied the silence by fidgeting her fingers across Lucien’s torso. He squirmed slightly as she traced the outline of his muscles, the skin there sensitive, but did not otherwise protest. She slid her hands along his chest, toying absently with the dark hair that grew there as she replayed Lucien’s words in her mind. She really needed to keep her mouth shut when it came to her inner turmoil, she conceded. Every time she opened it, someone told her something she didn’t want to hear.

But they were things she probably needed to hear. Sooner or later.

Lucien stirred beside her, and she could feel him looking down at her without needing to turn her head. She expected he was going to continue this conversation and now deeply regretted not letting him finish what they had started minutes before. The longer they talked, the more pleasure he got out of watching her writhe in her freshly illuminated hypocrisy, and though she would be blind if she did not admit to her own wickedness, she didn't enjoy giving him something to laugh about. She glanced up, caught her reflection in the darkness shrouding his irises. It looked like a stranger wearing her skin.

“You are my Silencer now,” he continued. He snaked his hand into her hair, forcing her head back so that she could not turn away from him. “I cannot have you sulking about. You will become distracted, and distractions are dangerous. Deadly even.”

“Aren’t I a distraction?”

Lucien paused, a quirk deepening at the corner of his mouth. He parted his lips to reply and then sighed. It was a strange, defeated sound that she had never heard from him before, and it made her inexplicably uneasy.

“Yes,” he said, “and you will be the death of me if I am not careful.” Another pause of brittle quiet as he stroked the back of her neck. “I’m sure that would relieve you, wouldn’t it?”

Nim swallowed stiffly. She held his stare with an expression as dry as tinder. Lucien's smile quivered.

Pressed her ear to his chest, she listened to how strangely familiar his heartbeat had become. She tried to focus on its thrum instead of her visions of falling ash and Lorise’s face shattering through the curtain of cinders. Instead of moss-green eyes and stoneflower tea, the memory of that night spent along the lapping waters of the Niben. Nim wondered if spring and its cherry blossoms would ever come, or if her life would be frozen now in this barren winter until her dying breath.

Lucien watched as a glaze coated her eyes and lifted her chin to face him. Nim let him, willingly. At least when he was touching her, she knew she was still real, and whether he did so with the intention of pain or pleasure at least she knew that in that moment she was not disappearing into the air.

“Silence, is it? How ready you are to walk my shadows,” he chuckled through the resounding ache in his chest. Nim’s empty expression hadn’t shifted in the slightest. He shook his head and drew her closer. “What am I going to do with you?”

“The same thing you’ve been doing, I suppose,” she said. She drew herself to his neck, pressed her mouth to the hot skin there and heard him hiss through his teeth. “It’s that simple, really.”

“Doubtful,” he groaned as she ground against him. “Everything you do is needlessly complex.”

“But you’re a simple man.”

“Am I?”

She nodded, a small, mirthless smile on her lips.

Lucien’s hands climbed back down her body, and she tightened her grip around his neck as her breathing hitched. He chuckled. The vibration of his laughter felt like tremors against her chest, tremors that quaked in the empty pit of her stomach.

“If you are such a sophisticated woman and I am such a simple man," he began again, "why then are we drawn to the same base sins, hm?”

Nim arched her body with a yawn, feigning ennui as though his presence had suddenly grown incredibly tiresome. She maintained her weary smile, felt it grow increasingly smug as she watched Lucien composure slowly slip away. “Oh yes,” she drawled. “Strange how many interests we have in common.” 

She wrapped a leg around his hips and pressed against him with all her meager weight as she attempted to roll atop him, but Lucien denied the advance. Instead, he flipped her onto her back and captured her wrists in his hand. She squirmed in his grasp, deliberately so and quite conscious of the motions she made.

Lucien grinned. “Perhaps you’re not as refined as you’d like to think,” he said and pressed her wrists into the pillows above her, crushed them so tightly that she knew they would be bruised come morning. He leaned in toward her ear, his mouth brushing against it with breath heavy and warm. She shivered beneath it.

“You’re enjoying this as much as I am,” he said. “You want me.”

Nim stared back at him, her heart racing and cheeks rosy despite the façade of indifference. “Sometimes.”

“By Sithis,” he scoffed, “you truly are heartless.”

“Perhaps that’s what draws you to me.”

“Perhaps.” He smirked, watching as she wriggled beneath him to regain leverage. Eventually, he released her and rolled onto his side only for her to tangle herself back into his arms. She clung to him tightly, squeezed herself into the contours of his form.

"Nimileth," he said, drawing her chin up to face him. She met him, staring blankly and chewing on the tender, broken skin of her lower lip. “I meant what I said earlier. I don’t know who I am when I’m with you.”

“Neither do I.”

When Lucien kissed her, she relented, her body flowing through his arms like a river of molten iron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHY?
> 
> Because
> 
> …why not ….
> 
> I feel dirty having written this :/ I'm going to make sure that the next chapter is action focused because all this romance/smut is making my brain melt and I need a break.
> 
> Also please let me know what you think with a comment because i have no idea what i am doing :D


	36. In Circles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends. Sorry about the long intermission between updates. School stuff and yada yada. Just haven't found the time to write!

**Chapter 36: In Circles**

Nim awoke to a wet nose nudging its way into her hand. Whiskers twitched across her palm and grazing teeth nibbled at her fingers. Blinking her eyes open into the inky gloom of Lucien’s fort, Nim found Schemer standing mere inches from her face as he burrowed into her hand. His tiny paws clung to the edge of the bed, and he stared up at her with beady eyes glistening in the darkness, begging for affection. He appeared to be munching on something with his back teeth, something insect-like with many little legs and a pair of wings. What used to be a pair of wings, at least. Nim sighed, and after taking a few seconds to rub the sleep from her eyes, she scooted closer to him and hoisted the rat into her lap where he curled up quite contently in the nest of sheets spread across her legs. She scratched behind his ears, yawning as she cleared the morning haze that clouded her head.

Schemer chittered quietly beneath her pets, and in the distant halls of Fort Farragut, bones rattled, and metal scraped against stone as the guardians patrolled the corridors. The candles on the bedside table had been snuffed out long ago, leaving only the faint flicker of dying torches along the pillars to illuminate the room. The light barely reached her, casting instead dim shadows that stretched and twisted across the floor before her. She glanced around the cold expanse of the living chamber, found spotted moss patches growing along the stone, ominous streaks of dark mold, and familiar looking cobwebs.

Nim looked over at the sleeping man beside her. Lucien lay on his side, half his face pressed into the pillow and arms splayed out along the mattress to reveal the empty space she had left when she sidled away from him. His features were much softer in sleep than she had ever seen them before. In the watery glow of moribund torches, his pale complexion was the cool taupe of twilight. He lay there so calm, his face framed by the night of black hair spilling down his neck and the stubble shadowing his jaw. It was a rugged softness, if there was such a thing. Like tree bark sanded down but not varnished or coarse stone weathered away by crashing waters. The harsh features muted somehow by the dark, void of sleep.

And she thought it a pleasant sight to look upon, for his aesthetic if nothing else. The stillness certainly suited him.

It was strange that for as well-groomed as he liked to keep himself, Lucien had no reservations about living amongst such grime._ He must enjoy it_, she thought with a shudder. The solitude and quiet she could understand. The undead guardians, the insects, and the mold, she could not.

Schemer continued with his mirthful chirps as Nim stroked him absently, her mind wandering to thoughts of Anvil, the Arcane University, and Lorise. Lucien’s eyes flickered behind his eyelids. She watched him anxiously. A slight shift of his head sent a lock of black hair tumbling across the bridge of his nose. His hand searched the sheets where she once lay, and a hoarse, inaudible mumble escaped him. She stiffened, feeling a coil of suspense tighten in her stomach as he stirred.

“Lucien?” she whispered, but he responded with only silent breaths and a muffled grunt. She slid Schemer onto the mattress between them as she rolled onto her elbows. “Lucien,” she repeated.

His eyes darted back and forth behind his lids. She nudged him slightly, probed his state of unconsciousness by brushing the hair off his ear and leaning close to whisper into it. “Are you awake?”

“I am now,” Lucien groaned regrettably. He turned towards her and was greeted with a face-full of Nim’s hair as she dangled over him. Sweeping it out of his eyes, he looked up at her with a flat, unamused expression and sighed. “Why is there a rat in my bed?”

“He didn’t want to be alone,” she replied, falling backward onto the mattress and propping herself up against the pillows. Lucien followed her movements with languid, half lidded eyes.

“How thoughtful of you.”

“He was eating bugs,” she told him. “I wonder how many he’s caught since you brought him here. This place is full of ‘em.”

“Mhm.”

“This fort is—well, it’s kind of filthy, Lucien. I see cobwebs in the corner that have grown since the first time I was here. And this mold really can’t be good for your lungs. You need better ventilation.”

“Mhm.”

“Don’t _mhm _me,” she chided and tutted in disapproval. “You could get Bloodlung or Greenspore. Maybe you could carve in some windows, shine some light into this musty pit. Sunshine really does wonders for the spirit. It will brighten up this place, make it less hostile and grim.”

“I don’t find it grim,” Lucien yawned and offered her a small, wry smile as he settled back into his pillow.

“I find it quite dreadful.”

“It’s a good thing you don’t live here then.”

“Natural lighting never hurt anyone,” she said. “I bet you’d be much less macabre if only you spent more time in the sun.”

“Mhm.”

Nim continued to babble on about the benefits of proper ventilation and natural lighting. Lucien hummed along. The flickering torchlight silhouetted her body in a soft golden haze, and he watched her silently as she stretched out her arms, releasing a series of _pops_ that crackled along her joints. The stretch brought a rare expression of calm, contentment to her features. It was the look she wore when she was with Vicente and Lorise, never him, and he felt a familiar fist tighten in his chest.

Lucien watched her for some time as she prattled on. When at last she fell silent, Nim glanced up, caught his gaze and quirked a brow. “What is it?”

He remained quiet, giving only the slightest shake of his head as he traced the patchwork of discolored, broken vessels that ran down her neck and arms. Swathes of livid violet and crimson blossomed across her bronzed skin, and he did admire that yielding quality of her flesh, how it surrendered to him so absolutely whenever he grasped it.

Catching his wandering gaze, Nim yawned again and rubbed at her eyes. She cast one more look at Lucien and, finding him staring as intently as a half-awake man could, decided it was time to get up and find her clothes. She peeled the sheets back and pivoted to let herself out of bed when a hand encircled her wrist. She looked over her shoulder, the furrow in her brow deepening.

“What is it?” she repeated. Lucien blinked a few times before he loosened his grip on her, letting his fingers brush lightly across the back of her arm before she pulled away.

“I forgot.”

“Oh,” she said, measured caution replacing the calm that once softened her voice. “Then you won’t protest to me getting out of bed?” 

“No. Don’t let me keep you.”

Nim sat on the edge of the mattress and grabbed at the bundles of strewn garments on the floor. She sorted through them, and finding her shirt and trousers in a state of blood-stained tatters, opted for Lucien’s discarded clothing instead. She didn’t pack much at all in the way of spare travel apparel and with her cloak lost, she’d take anything she could fine for the meager extra layer of warmth they’d provide. Lucien’s clothes, while much too large for her, were at least clean and in one piece.

She slipped the loose cotton shirt over her head and turned to Lucien, saw him arch an amused brow. “Is it okay if I wear this?” she asked.

“Aren’t you already wearing it?”

“Yes.”

“If I said no, would you take it off?”

“No.”

“Then why did you ask?” He offered her an indulgent smile and rose from the bed, pretending not to notice the few extra seconds that her eyes lingered on his bare form when he crossed over to his dresser.

Lucien carried on with his morning routine, a few limbering stretches and several moments of thoughtful silence as he brushed through his hair and contemplated his work for the day. Ungolim would be awaiting his report, and soon Lucien would be expected to start rebuilding from the detritus of the purification. He splashed his face in a small bowl of cool water and watched the surface ripple as drops rolled off the stubble of his chin. His sanctuary would never be the same, would it?

But what did that matter now?

A few paces away, he heard Schemer’s curious squeaks while Nim fussed with the buckles of her pack. Lucien pulled on his black, silk robe and turned around to find her standing at the foot of the bed, searching through her belongings and shooing the nosy rat away while he rooted through the outside pockets for snacks. 

She was practically swimming in his shirt, dressed in wool socks of two different colors with her hair waving about her head in a rumpled mess of rust-brown flyaways. Though he didn’t dare voice it, he rather liked how she looked in this ragged state, in his clothing with the hem of his shirt skimming across her mid-thigh and the collar slipping to the edge of her shoulders. It was objectively an unflattering fit, but despite it all Lucien thought she only looked lovelier when bare and covered in the bruises of his making.

It was a fortunate thing for him that she did bruise so easily.

“I’m heading home for a while,” Nim called out, her attention still directed on scrounging through her pack as though another set of trousers might materialize at the bottom. Lucien returned to her side and offered her a mug of water.

“Oh, thanks,” she eked out, and stared at the cup for a moment longer than should be necessary for such a simple offer. She accepted it and looked up at Lucien expectantly. “Did you hear what I said?”

“I did.”

She maintained her expectant stare, waiting on his orders, and occupied the silence by chugging down her water. When Lucien said nothing, she handed him her empty mug, threw him a wary side-eye, and returned to her pack. “Is that- Um, is that okay?”

“Since when have you ever sought validation from me?” he teased.

“I don’t really know what else you expect me to do before my next contract. If you have no objection, I’d really like to go home.”

Lucien set the mug down and stepped behind her. He drew her hair away from her neck so that it draped loosely down her back. “You will await my orders,” he said, brushing his fingers up and down the side of her throat. “I must first meet with the rest of the Black Hand. The Dark Brotherhood now finds itself in a unique position with more contracts than assassins. I am organizing a map of dead drop locations throughout Cyrodiil where I will deliver your contracts. I will send for you when arrangements have been finalized.”

Nim shifted awkwardly and did her best to ignore the grinding lurch that sprang from the heat of his breath on her skin. “Is that safe?” she asked, focusing instead on keeping Schemer from ripping through the worn leather of her pack with his sharp, nibbling teeth.

“Is anything truly?”

“Will you know how to reach me?”

Lucien drew her closer, his arms crossing around her waist. “Perhaps I’ll come find you in Anvil.”

A quick, sharp chuckle escaped her. “No, you won’t,” she snorted and brought a hand to his, pausing their descent down her hips.

“And why not? I know where you live,” he murmured into her neck. “You couldn’t really stop me if you tried.”

Nim frowned, and began shoving her belongings back into her bag, a touch more aggressively now than when she had removed them. Lucien had broken into her house once before, and one time was far too many. For well-grounded reason, the fear of him following her on her travels already weighed on the back of her mind like an inescapable millstone, and if she could have one location of reprieve from her worries, she would like to be Benirus Manor. What purpose did such a large house serve if she couldn’t feel secure within its walls? If her own home could not be a place of solace, then perhaps no place could be.

“Or you could just send me a letter like a normal person,” she said.

Lucien chuckled. “What an insipid suggestion.”

She felt his hand wander up the side of her thigh, drawing up the hem of her shirt as he rubbed small circles with the calloused pads of his fingers. He climbed higher. The course hairs along his jaw brushed across her neck and she shivered, her head pushed lightly to the side as his mouth travelled to her exposed shoulder.

“Don’t- don’t play around like that,” she stammered out. She shrugged him off and pulled the collar of the shirt up to cover the skin he had kissed. “I mean it. I don’t want you turning up uninvited again.”

Slow, rootless laughter rolled across her back as Lucien pulled her tighter against him. “What gives you the impression that I’m not serious, hmm? After I so graciously brought you into my own home, should I be offended that you’re not willing to return the courtesy?”

Nim pulled herself free and grimaced, looking both irritated and distressed. “Lucien, this is a dungeon,” she said and plopped down on the bed with a shaky sigh. She smoothed the fabric of her shirt over her thighs and glanced up at him with as serious an expression as she could muster for someone looking as bedraggled as she did. “I live in a real house in a real city where real people live real lives. I can’t be having some bloodied tryst there. We’re assassins. I have a reputation. I have neighbors. I don’t want to give them reason to start asking questions.”

“A dungeon?” Lucien glanced about his chamber feigning incredulity. “Do the cobwebs truly bother you so much?”

“You can’t show up unannounced. Please don’t. There are people in Anvil who can’t find out that I live this way.”

“People?” He narrowed his brows, his smile falling sharply. It was as though a wire within him had snapped and the playfulness of the previous moment had been snuffed out in one quick breath. Nim tensed on the edge of the bed, knocking her knees together and trying her best to look more annoyed than unnerved.

“You know what I mean,” she deflected, “I live a different life on the surface than the one that we share.”

Lucien’s face darkened.

“People,” he repeated.

“Yes, people,” she shot back. “Not all of us live in a hole in the ground.”

Lucien’s stare sharpened to such a fine point that she felt he was attempting to draw blood with it.

“And just what is it that you don’t want me to find in Anvil?” he asked bitterly. “Or perhaps _who_ would be more apt a question.”

“Talos sake,” Nim hissed as she palmed her face with an exasperated groan, “just let me keep a sliver of my own life as it is, please. You don’t need to smother every part of it.”

“Is that what I’ve been doing, smothering you?” he sneered, his top lip curling like an angry wolf. “Need you be reminded that I have offered you every opportunity to advance, and you have yet to decline despite your façade of virtue. You made those choices with conscious volition.”

“I meant—"

He cut her off with a spiteful scoff. “I have given you far more freedom than is warranted.”

At that, Nim felt the heat of her blood rise to a roil, and she gripped the bedsheets in her fist as tightly as she could to keep from losing her temper. “I had all the freedom I pleased before I was your Silencer. You will never take that from me. I won’t let you take that away just because you get off on these little power trips."

Lucien drew closer and set his hands down on her shoulders. “You are my Silencer before you are anything else, do you understand? You are indebted to me.” His fingers ground against the bones there and Nim flinched, a scowl marring her features as she attempted to bat him away.

“You don’t own me,” she said stiffly. “I am not a thing you can possess. I may work for you, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to keel over and let you rip away everything I’ve built for myself. I have every right to my privacy. I’m allowed routine and a life that doesn’t involve—"

Before she could finish she was wrenched from her seat as Lucien seized her biceps and hoisted her to her feet. Gasping, she clutched frantically at a fistful of his robes to stabilize herself and she blinked up at him, eyes wide and rattled.

“This is your life now,” he seethed. “We serve Sithis above all else, and you will not forget what I have risked in preserving the very breath that leaves your lungs. This is_ our_ life, Nimileth. You are my Silencer before you fancy yourself an alchemist or a petty thief—”

“A petty thief!” She cackled. A large, obnoxious grin split her face, and she smirked at him with a sanguine defiance sparkling in her eye. “How misinformed you are!”

“It does not matter what you claim to be,” he spat. “Whether you are an esteemed member of the Mages Guild or a chapel-going, gods-fearing hypocrite, you serve _me_ first. Am I understood?”

Nim tugged against his grasp, and when he refused to let go, she opened her mouth to swear back at him only to catch her tongue between her teeth and fall quiet. She stilled in his arms, her shoulders sinking. Lucien watched with a mix of quelling fire and curiosity burning behind his eyes as she released the robes in her fist and smoothed them down against his chest.

“Why must we always end things like this?” She asked, her voice soft and lilting and utterly exhausted. “We go in circles, Lucien.”

“I—”

Lucien’s voice cracked in his throat. The muscles in his neck tightened. He released Nim before he had even become conscious of it, only realizing he had done so when he found himself watching her step away from him. She backed up against the edge of his bed and clutched at her shoulders, gaze directed at the rope ladder hanging down into his fort.

“I don’t know,” he rasped out, then cleared the hoarseness from his voice before speaking again. “Why do you resist me so?”

“I always give in sooner or later,” she reminded him. The words settled in his chest with an unwelcome bitterness. “You’re rather persistent.”

“I suppose I am.”

“We can’t keep fighting like this.”

Lucien sighed and approached her slowly. He lifted a hand to stroke back her hair, and she shrunk away under his palm, grimacing as though his very touch was an unbearable affliction. It stung him for more reasons than he cared to admit, but he stepped closer despite her reservation, drawing her hair back from her face and placing soft kisses against her eyelids.

“You’re right. We go in circles,” he whispered and heard Nim swallow a shaky breath. She drew her hand up to meet his, and to his surprise she did not pry it away, simply rested it there against the back of his palm. “Forgive me.”

“You’re forgiven,” she said, wondering if there was really any other option.

* * *

After a silent breakfast, Nim finished gathering her belongings and made a swaddle for Schemer with her ruined clothing. He seemed to be fond of the insect-ridden fort, finding many a tasty morsel scurrying about in the darkened corners. At least he’d keep her house free of pests, she thought and hoped he wouldn’t bother the stray cats she brought inside from time to time. She was much more frightened of him eating them than vice versa.

Across the room, Lucien read quietly at his desk while sipping tea. It felt strange coinhabiting his fort, his _home,_ if she could even call it that, and she never kept him far from her periphery. She glanced over from time to time, making sure he was still preoccupied with his own activities. She didn’t dare ask what he was reading lest they engage in a real, substantive conversation about ordinary life and ordinary interests. No matter how mundane, she didn’t wish to share with Lucien any more than she already had. Those were dangerous conversations. Personal. Private.

Though she was curious.

She really didn’t know anything about the man save his penchant for the lyre, his amateur alchemical skills, and a brief account of his travels in the Skyrim and Morrowind. It was better this way. She couldn’t allow herself to become comfortable in his presence. He was an assassin. She was _his _assassin. She might as well be a ghost floating about the room, another of the undead wandering the distant halls. Time willing, she’d likely end up shambling down these hallways as one of his many guardians if she continued down this path.

Tearing her eyes away from the Speaker, Nim pulled on her robes and directed a few whistles toward Schemer to draw his attention away from the small spider he was chasing, but the rat had no intention of stalling his hunt for her. She chased after him, scooping him up and rolling him up in his swaddle as he squeaked in protest. Lucien peeked over the edge of his book, brows raised curiously, and lips pulled into a thin line to suppress the shadow of a smile he felt growing there.

“I’m heading out,” Nim said, blowing back the hair from her eyes with a rough breath as she cradled Schemer in her arms like a fussing baby.

“Yes, I can see.”

“Do you know where I can find Lorise? I need to tell her about- about what happened. She should be in Kvatch, right?”

“Doubtful.”

“Doubtful?” Nim echoed in confusion, her expression turning grim. “What do you mean?”

Lucien bookmarked his page and steepled his hands atop the desk. “I mean that I doubt her Speaker would keep her stationed at his own Sanctuary. He’s been terribly busy with establishing the base in Kvatch. I’m almost certain he has her travelling. Running errands, fulfilling contracts on his behalf.”

“Travelling where? Within Cyrodiil?”

Lucien shrugged. “I haven’t any further details.”

“You think Mathieu would tell me if I asked him?” she asked, bouncing the bundle of rat on her hip. “I bet he would. He seems to take pity on me.”

At the prospect of Nim seeking out Bellamont, Lucien felt ice splintering through his veins. He had been so caught up in her disappearance over these past months that he had made no progress on investigating his suspicions of the traitor’s true identity. Why was Nim so trusting of him? What history did they share?

He wondered if he should warn her. Perhaps she could aid him in his investigation, for in the time he had spent looking for her while she was gone, he had learned Nim was no novice detective herself. In fact, she was a high-ranking member of the Mage’s Guild who had been fundamental in uncovering the rise of necromancer activity in Cyrodiil. He really shouldn’t have been so surprised by her success. Sithis had blessed her after all, naïve and insufferable though she was.

“Well?” Nim queried again, breaking him away from his thoughts. “Would he even be allowed to tell me?”

Lucien bit down on the inside of his cheek. Should he tell her of his suspicions? Now, after she had already been ordered to kill every one of her brothers and sisters, after he had knowingly passed along the order despite his qualms?

What would she do if she suspected it had all been for naught and the traitor remained alive? How repulsed would she be by his actions?

Enough to risk running from him again?

Lucien cleared his throat. “I suppose that’s up to his own discretion,” he said.

“Maybe I’ll be fortunate enough to see him in Anvil again," she said absently as searched around the chamber for her pack. "Would save me a trip to Kvatch. I hate that place.”

“Again?” Lucien paused, brow quirked. “And what business does he have with you?”

“I didn’t mean anything by it.” She flushed and immediately scolded herself for coming across so suspicious. The last thing she wanted was to give Lucien another reason to follow her around. “I’ve seen him passing through town. He said it’s for business so I stay out of his way, mostly. I told you. I don’t want my neighbors asking questions.”

Lucien was silent for some time and Nim grew increasingly uncomfortable. How could she be making such hare-brained mistakes around a man like Lucien? It wasn’t like her. She’d been down in this dungeon for far too long. It must be the mold, she thought, the poor ventilation meddling with her ability to reason clearly.

“I only want to find Lorise,” she said to break the silence and assuage any lingering suspicions he had fixated on. “It’s important that I tell her what happened to Vicente. I want it to come from me before she hears any rumors.”

Lucien rose from his seat and began walking toward her. Nim turned quickly and shuffled away as discretely as she could while continuing the search for her misplaced belongings.

“I understand,” he said. "You need to be careful, Nimileth. These are dark times for us, and you should be wary of who you trust."

Nim stifled a scoff at the back of her throat. "And what give you the impression I trust anyone here at all?"

"You trust me don't you?"

Nim chose not to respond. 

"Nimileth," Lucien called out to her, his voice stern as he awaited her reply.

Still, she held silent and listened to the echo of Lucien's footsteps growing closer. She held Schemer tighter, as though if she held him close enough there would be no room for Lucien to slip through.

"Are you going to answer me?"

"Do I even have a choice? What do you want me to say?" She whipped her head around, her brows furrowed with exasperation and found Lucien standing with her pack in his hands. She snatched it from him quickly. "Thank you," she eked out.

“I've placed a few potions in there for you. You're certain you are well enough to travel?"

"Yes. I'm fine."

Lucien smiled, small and joyless, as he tucked a tousled strand of hair behind her ear. "Are you lying to me?" 

"I've been better," Nim said and averted her eyes, focusing instead on picking a nonexistent crumb out of schemers fur, "but I'm quite certain that if I spend anymore time down here it will be detrimental to my health."

"I see." A short pause. "I won't keep you any longer then. And If you do see Mathieu, tell him… tell him that I’m watching his progress closely and that I pray our Dread Father rewards him justly for his success.”

“By the Nine, are you this cryptic with everyone?” Nim frowned. “Can’t I just say ‘well done, congratulations on your promotion?’”

“Pass the message along as I have said it. He’ll know what it means.”

“Okay.”

“There is one more thing before you leave." Lucien gestured toward the rope ladder. "Allow me to show you and then I will let you be on your way.”

Lucien stepped toward the ladder, and Nim cautiously following after him as he led her into the crisp morning. They walked a few paces into the surrounding pines and around the broken cobblestone of Fort Farragut’s ruins when she heard the crunch of hooves on brittle, dry leaves. There stood a horse in a dark leather saddle, ink black coat and eyes of cinnabar red. The horse turned its head to look at the pair of approaching assassins, and Nim gasped. It wasn’t staring at her. It was staring into her. 

“This is Shadowmere,” Lucien told her. “She is a magnificent steed who has served me well for years now.”

“She is eating a small animal,” Nim pointed out, watching as the horse ground its jaws down on the helpless chipmunk in its maws. Only the small, fluffy tail was visible through her teeth. Nim clutched Schemer closer to her chest.

Lucien opened his mouth as though to offer an excuse or comforting word, but then shrugged dismissively. “Horses do that from time to time."

"Well, I suppose many animals are opportunistic omnivores," Nim said.

"Nature wears mask of serenity when at heart it is a vicious, bloody temptress.” Lucien approached the horse with a muted smile and stroked the length of her nose. Shadowmere snorted softly and nuzzled into his palm. His smile deepened. “I trust you know how to care for horses?”

Nim looked on in a state of horror and morbid intrigue but quickly dropped her expression when she noticed Lucien was awaiting her reply. “Um, vaguely. I admit I’ve never had the need to learn.”

“She shouldn’t prove difficult. Shadowmere is unlike any other horse you may have met before.”

“Well I can see that.” In fact Nim was certain that this eerie, majestic creature before her was no horse at all, but some supernatural entity disguised as one. “But why would I need to know anything about horses?"

“Shadowmere has been a dear friend and companion to me for many years, bIessed by Sithis himself. I wish to present her to you as a gift.”

Nim’s eyes widened to perfect spheres, mouth hanging agape as she bounced her stare between Lucien and Shadowmere. “You’re shitting me.”

“How gracious you are.”

“But you can’t be serious. This is your horse! How will you get around?”

Lucien hid his smile behind a shake of his head. “She is the fastest and strongest horse you will ever find in this mortal plane, and now she is yours. You will need her more than I in these coming weeks. I trust she will serve you as fiercely as she has served me.”

“She’s- she's so beautiful,” Nim murmured quietly and set Schemer down a safe distance away from Shadowmere. She walked toward the horse slowly and reached out a hand so that she could smell her before drawing any closer. Shadowmere nudged in with her nose, the tip of her mouth leaving a smudge of crimson blood in the lines of Nim’s palm. She brushed it off on her shirt and ventured closer, stroking the horse’s snout and brushing back the mane of hair that fell in front of her red eyes. Shadowmere did not protest, and despite the unnatural aura that surrounded her, Nim felt only stillness and calm radiating from the horse’s presence.

“I don’t know what to say. She really is beautiful.” Nim looked over her shoulder at Lucien, her eyes worried at the corner. “Are you- are you certain about this?”

“Yes,” he assured her. “Keep her with you as a token of my trust and love.”

"Oh."

She looked away quickly and returnined her attention to Shadowmere, the loose strands of dark mane blowing in the brisk gust of wind, the glittering red of her irises. She felt a churning in her stomach and leaned into the horse’s neck, squeezing her eyes closed and listening to the sound of her breaths as they fogged in the freezing air.

She could feel Lucien’s eyes on her and steeled herself before turning to face him. He held her pack out for her, and she accepted it, offering him a soft, grateful nod in return. After gathering up Schemer, she paused. 

“Thank you for not letting my bleed out on the road.”

“It would have been such a shame to lose you that way,” he said and stepped closer to scratch Schemer behind the ear. "You've been an invaluable asset to our Family."

“I don’t understand you,” she sighed. “I really don’t.”

“You do. Better than most.”

Nim felt her stomach turn and pulled Schemer closer.

“You’ll send for me in Anvil? No surprises?”

“I will send for you.”

“Okay. I- okay.”

Lucien leaned in as he stroked Schemer’s fur. It was a subtle, gradual inclination toward her, and she hardly noticed until she found herself leaning too. Catching herself, Nim promptly turned away, stammering out her farewell as she mounted Shadowmere and trotted away before anything else, be it words or gifts, could be shared between them.

He’d given her quite enough already, more than she wished to accept.

* * *

Nim stopped in Cheydinhal on her way west, risking the bile and sickness that climbed up her throat as she walked through town to Lorise’s house. The house was empty. This she had expected. She didn’t know what Mathieu was asking of his Silencer, couldn’t even guess what duties a Silencer might possibly have, but whatever she was doing on his behalf was keeping her far away from Cheydinhal.

Nim slipped inside the cold house. It was better that they didn’t meet with the memory of the purification still fresh in her mind. She hadn’t the faintest idea of how to explain it all to Lorise without falling to pieces, and instead left a note asking to meet whenever their duties as Silencers allowed. She hoped to hear back from Lorise soon, but perhaps… not too soon. She still needed to figure out what to say.

The following days were neither productive nor particularly pleasant for Nim. She arrived in Anvil to find her house full of withered, brown ferns and desiccated flowers. None of their parts were salvageable in their state of desiccation and only her aloe and bloodgrass had survived the drought induced by her absence. Cleaning out the dead plants and repotting them was an enjoyable task, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had betrayed them by leaving them to die of thirst. Alchemists had a strange relationship with their ingredients, even if they were just houseplants.

In contrast, the motley crew of stray cats she had befriended were looking quite round and portly. Her guildmate Thaurron had been kind enough to set out food for them on her porch, and It seemed like neither he nor her cats knew anything about reasonable portion sizes. They greeted her with bitter, resentful mewls of acknowledgment as they pawed at the door, impatiently waiting to be let into the warmth of her foyer. _The entitlement of these creatures_, Nim sighed as she poured out a serving of kibble that her feline friends found objectionably small.

Soon it was Sundas morning, and despite having plenty of idle time to return to her quiet, simple life in Anvil, she felt deeply unsettled, and her inability to place the source of her anxieties only seemed to aggravate them further. Cleaning usually did well to clear her mind, and so Nim wandered through her house looking through her wardrobe for items to donate to the Chapel of Dibella's charity box. Perhaps a visit to the chapel was just what she needed to help ground herself.

In a locked trunk beneath her bed, she pulled out several outfits worth of lavish garments that she had stolen back in her days while living in the Imperial City. Those could go. She had her own money to purchase luxuries now. Some of it was coin earned fairly from her freelance alchemy, odd-end jobs, and treasure hunting. Some of it was from fenced stolen property. A good portion of it now was blood money, but it paid for her luxuries well enough on its own.

Further in the trunk, Nim spied the familiar set of Black Hand robes that she had stolen from the house in Bruma those many years ago. How odd now that she could wear them as her own. She wondered who they belonged to, but finding nothing identifiable sewn in along the collar or hem, she pulled them out to place in her discard pile when the glimmer of a gemstone caught her eye.

There at the bottom of the trunk sat the Amulet of Kings. She picked it up, held it beneath the cool light shining through the window, and it stared at her. It stared _through_ her, its one blooded eye mocking how far she had fallen since that night in the imperial prison. Nim felt her blood turn electric, and the tingle that radiated through her veins felt like sharp, shrill laughter. She really should have pawned it off when she had the chance. But now…

A sudden knock at the door made her heart leap into her throat, and Nim shoved the amulet deep into her pocket as she raced down the stairs to answer it. Beyond the door stood Carahil who hardly waited a second for the door to open before speaking.

“By the Nine, when you wrote that you’d be gone for a few months, I had hoped it meant you were taking a vacation, not tracking down more necromancers,” the Altmer said. “You look worse than before you left. I know we’re elven, Nimileth, but if you continue adding to your responsibilities like this you’re going to wind up with the lifespan of a human.”

“Thank you Carahil. It’s a pleasure to see you again too.”

Nim stepped aside and gestured Carahil into her foyer. The older mage smiled grimly. “That matter of personal business that called you away, I see you’ve returned all in one piece. Everything finds you well, I hope?”

“It was a death in the family,” Nim told her and closed the door. “There were some loose ends to secure, wills to execute, estates to partition. You know.”

“I’m terribly sorry. I had no idea.”

“We all, um, saw it coming.”

After a pause of quiet, Nim gestured toward the sitting area near the crackling fireplace. “Would you care for some tea? I just set some brewing.”

Carahil eyed the large rat sleeping blissfully in front of the fireplace and held up her hand in refusal. “No, thank you. This shall be brief. I’ve come because Hannibal Traven approached me with a proposition, and I’d like your opinion on it. But first tell me, is it true? About Irlav.”

“If you mean, _is he dead_, then yes. It was gruesome. Raminus and I found him.”

Carhil nodded. “So we’ve all heard.”

“That’s not what you’re asking, is it then?”

Carahil looked at Nim with a dour expression, eyes worried and mouth pulled into a thin frown. “Had Irlav Jarol enlisted with the Necromancers? It’s appalling to think such a thing of a Council member, but I really can’t say I would doubt it could happen. Not after what we’ve learned of Falcar. The Arch Mage wrote to all of the chapter heads explaining that it had been an ambush, but— well, I’ve never believed Hannibal would knowingly lie to me, but I understand why he might want to mitigate—”

“No, he hadn’t,” Nim cut in. “It was clear that Irlav and his students were fighting them off until the end. I truly believe he thought he was doing what was best for the future of the guild.”

“Good,” Carahil said softly, her eyes growing slightly distant. “Good.”

“What was it then that you had wanted to speak with me about?”

“The Arch-Mage has been seeking to fill the empty seats on the Council and he’s asked me to consider stepping into one of the vacancies. I’ve been delaying my response for some time now. If I am to speak frankly, I’d prefer not to, not yet anyway. I'm not one for politics, but I know if I decline he will ask you.”

Nim raised her brows at that, looking confused. Had the Arch-mage not informed the rest of the guild on her new position? Before she could manage to inform Carahil, the Altmer quickly continued. “I know this will sound uncharacteristically maternal of me, but I don’t want to see your time and efforts consumed by Council proceedings. Not this early in your carrier. I do trust you, Nimileth, but I’m worried that Hannibal asks too much of you too soon. I've seen young mages burn out for less. It would be a tragedy to see that fate befall you.”

“I’ve already accepted the position,” Nim said.

"Oh? You have?"

“Traven asked me before I left for Fort Teleman in search of Irlav. I suppose I’m not all that surprised that he wants to keep quiet about.”

“No, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised either. I can't imagine being a member of the Council makes you any less of a target.” Carahil was silent for a moment, and then reached out to rest her hand on Nim’s shoulder. She offered a crooked, though sympathetic grin. “I still don’t quite understand how you’ve found yourself in this position, Nimileth, but it’s in my opinion that the guild is better off for it.”

Nim said nothing, her voice lost somewhere in the back of her throat.

Slowly, Carahil drew her hand back. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I’m sure that this is no comfort to you given what you’ve experienced.”

“No, it- it is,” Nim said and scratched at the back of her head. “Coming from you at least. I don’t know if I’m capable of handling such responsibility, but I will do all I can.”

“That’s really all one can ask for. I suppose I ought to congratulate you on your promotion though. The youngest Council member we’ve ever seen, one of my own students.”

Nim shrugged. “Desperate times, you know?”

“Indeed.”

Carahil stood stiffly with a contemplative expression as she looked down at Nim, who shifted awkwardly in the silence. She shook her head, as though clearing it, and reached into the pocket of her coat before handing Nim a small bundle of envelopes.

“Thaurron had been collecting your mail while you were gone. I thought I'd bring it by while I'm here.”

Nim sifted through the stack of letters, finding a few from Methredhel, one form Amusei, another from Fathis. Her attention was quickly drawn to an envelope sealed with red wax bearing the embossment of the Mages Guild sigil. 

“When did this come in?” she asked, lifting it up from the stack. Carahil shrugged.

“I can’t say I know.”

Wasting no time, Nim ripped open the envelope and felt her heart sink into the pit of her stomach as she read through its contents. Raminus had written to her explaining that he was taking a group of battlemages to investigate Fort Ontus, an abandoned stronghold in the southern reaches of the Colovian Highlands. He had reason to believe Caranya had taken the Necromancer’s Amulet there for purposes other than her original claim. Her loyalty to the guild was now in question, and Raminus anticipated that if the Necromancers had not already infiltrated her hideout, there would be plenty nearby. He was planning to convince her to relinquish the artifact at the very least, by force if it came down to it. In closing his message, Raminus stressed that Nim needn’t join him, that he had everything under control, and encouraged her to remain in Anvil until he returned to the Arcane University with news from Fort Ontus.

She knew that Raminus only meant well, but the suggestion had stung. The idea of Raminus pressing forward without her left her wondering if he thought she was in too delicate a state of mind to handle whatever awaited them at Fort Ontus. Her latest meltdown following the recovery of the Bloodworm Helm had done nothing to allay his worries if so, and Nim found herself feeling quite cross at herself more than anyone else.

“Blood of Akatosh, they’ve already left,” she cursed as she spied the date of the letter. “I’m sorry Carahil, I must attend to this. Thank you for bringing it by.”

“It’s Caranya, isn’t it?” she asked and Nim nodded grimly, offering no further detail. “I’ll see myself out then. Perhaps I should ask Thaurron to check by on the cats again?”

“Please do. I can’t imagine I’ll be gone for long, but just in case… well it wouldn’t hurt.

Carahil sighed and turned toward the door to take her leave. “Do be safe now, Nimileth. I fear the worst may still be yet to come.”

The front door clicked shut as a hollow gust of wind blew against it. Nim stood in her foyer with the letter scrunched in her palm and her stomach knotted with anticipation. She wondered if Raminus and the battlemages had made it to Fort Ontus by now. It wasn’t that far away from her, about halfway between Kvatch and Chorrol. If she left now, there might be time to reach them. She darted up the stairs, lacing up her boots and slipping on a worn cloak that she had intended to donate. After restocking her quiver and securing her blade to her belt, Nim raced out into the winter air and made her way toward the stables. So fast was her mind racing that she hardly noticed the unfamiliar weight of the Amulet of Kings in her pocket.


	37. The Deadlands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Needed a Break from the cloying romance. Wrote some action. Thanks for reading :))

**Chapter 36: The Deadlands**

Nim stood outside of Weynon Priory and forced down a hard swallow. She clutched Shadowmere’s reigns in one hand, the other concealed in her pocket and wound tightly in the chain of the Amulet of Kings. Morning had yet to dawn, and the dark, grey sky above stretched unbroken and endless over the Colovian highlands. The flickering light in the window of the stone abbey remained dim, and Nim continued pacing, every now and then glancing up to survey the priory house for signs that its inhabitant stirred awake.

She had spent two days travelling to the Priory after having reached Fort Ontus only to find it void of any necromancers or of Raminus. What she did find was a squadron of guild battlemages stationed around the fort’s perimeter who explained to her that the Master Wizard was already on his way back to the Arcane University to return the stolen artifact. The mages informed her that Caranya had taken the Necromancer’s amulet with the intention of bringing it to the King of Worms himself. For exactly how long Caranya had been under Mannimarco’s employ, no one could be certain, but Nim knew it was long enough for Mannimarco to gain the upperhand in nearly every action against him that the guild had attempted.

At least now, with the traitor outed and subsequently disposed of, they might have a chance to drive him back. For the time being, the guild was secure, but the relief that Nim felt was minimal at best. The safety brought by Caranya’s removal would undoubtedly be short lived.

A few more minutes passed before the sound of creaking wood drew her attention back to the priory house. A robed man stood in a narrow sliver of open doorway, blowing his breath into his hands and rubbing them against his shoulders as he stood in the cool winter air. He shut the door gently behind him and made his way out to the stables. Nim followed after him.

If she didn’t know any better, she might have said the man looked nervous, constantly checking over his shoulder and gazing toward the priory house as though expecting someone to be trailing him. Nim made sure to bound loudly across the gravel lined road as she approached. The shroud of dawn was hardly the most innocuous time to call upon unsuspecting strangers.

The scent of dried grain hung heavy in the air as she drew closer to the stable. The robed monk stood at the far end, sifting through a bag of horse feed in desperate search for something that Nim would bet money on not being horse feed.

“Hello,” she called out softly. The man jumped, releasing a shrill squeak as he turned to face her.

“Good- good morning, ma’am,” he stammered out, clutching his chest as he regained his composure.

“Sorry, I thought you heard me approaching.”

“No, I– I suppose I did not. My name is Brother Marcel. How may I be of service?”

Nim eyed the man for a curious moment. In his hand, he clutched a glass bottle containing a rolled-up missive, and he quickly tucked it behind him when he noticed she was looking. He seemed quite intent on pretending that nothing had happened, and Nim agreed that whatever secret messages he was passing through the stables in the dead hours of morning were none of her business anyway.

“I’m here to meet with someone,” she told him. “I believe his name was...”

She paused, realizing that it had been two long years since the night the Emperor had died. What had he said to her when he had given her the amulet? Who was she supposed to find? The monk looked at her with a puzzled expression and shifted awkwardly atop a small pile of spilled grain.

“Oh, I seem to have forgotten his name. I want to say it was something Breton. Jaques? Jasper?”

“Jauffre?”

“Yeah,” Nim drawled with a clear measure of uncertainty. “That’s the one.”

“Why do you need to speak with Father Jauffre, may I ask?”

“I’m afraid that is between Jauffre and I.”

Brother Marcel started slightly at her response. He stood straighter, eyes alert and more attentive as they surveyed her.

“Well?” She asked, trying her best to remain calm and polite beneath his scrutinizing eye. “Do you know where I might find him?”

The monks eyes widened. They swept across Nim as though suddenly recognizing her, and for just a moment, she saw a flash of excitement glint across them.

“Yes, certainly,” he said with more enthusiasm than Nim believed was called for. “I think you may find him praying in the chapel. I can show you where that is if you’ll follow me.”

Nim glanced out the window of the stable to find the stone chapel completely void of light. She hadn’t seen anyone enter or exit in the entire time she was pacing the Black Road. She turned back to Brother Marcel and found him smiling with unnerving eagerness.

“Are you certain he’s inside?” she asked.

Brother Marcel walked past her and stood in the stable archway. He gestured for her to follow.

“Oh yes, Jauffre is quite the early riser. Come. I’ll show you where he is.”

Shadowed by the stable arches, the man’s smile suddenly looked sinister to Nim. She took a small step forward and pulled her pack tighter against her shoulder. “I’d prefer not to disturb him in prayer. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll wait for him in the Priory House.”

“He won’t mind,” Brother Marcel insisted. “Not if it’s as important as you say it is.”

“I didn’t say it was important.”

“Ah, I can only assume it is if you’re willing to come so early in the morning.”

“No, no. I was just passing through," she said with a nod of her head and pressed past the monk, who now appeared to be struggling to keep a disappointed frown from twitching onto his face. "Anyway, thank you for your time.” Nim didn’t bother to wait for his reply before she made her own way to priory house.

With the strange monk still on her mind, Nim managed to slip through the front door and was working to carefully close it without creaking when she heard the sound of a man clearing his throat from behind her. She hoped it was Jauffre. That would make her life so much easier.

“Hello,” the man said as she turned around to greet him. He stood at the top of the stairs in a pair of dark brown monk robes, staring down. “Can I help you?”

“This is Weynon Priory, correct?”

Nim looked around the stairwell, taking in the modest décor of the dining area to her left. The priory house was bare and simple, as was typical for a monastic retreat. She didn’t expect to find the Guildmaster of the Blades in a place like this.

“It is,” the monk at the top of the stairs replied. “This is a monastery devoted to the praise and worship of Talos and the Nine Divines.”

“Are you Jauffre?” she asked hopefully.

“No. I am Prior Maborel, head of our community, and responsible for all our religious and secular affairs. Father Jauffre, Brother Piner, Brother Marcel, and I are members of the Order of Talos. Now, how may I help you?”

“I’m waiting for Father Jauffre to return from prayer.”

“From prayer, you say?” The monk quirked a brow. “Do you come to seek guidance in the Temple?”

“No, I come seeking Father Jauffre.”

“Ah, I see,” he smiled. “He is up the stairs to the right.”

Nim nodded in thanks and hurried past him, inwardly cursing that strange monk she had met at the stable. Why in Oblivion was he trying to lead her to the temple? To force her into prayer? She knew priests and monks concerned themselves with guiding the lost souls of others back onto the path of the Nine, but Nim didn’t think she truly looked so sinful on the outside. Did she? Perhaps the monk saw through her, saw all the atrocities she had committed in her short life. She grimaced at the thought.

Around the corner was a small, humble study lined with bookshelves, and at the end of the room, pressed against the window sat an old Breton writing at his desk. His tonsured hair was a silvered grey, and his face was weathered with shallow wrinkles.

“Father Jauffre?” Nim called out quietly.

The Breton raised his head. “Yes?” He surveyed the woman in front of him with a quick flit of his eyes. “May I help you?”

“My name is Nimileth. I’ve come to speak with you about a rather sensitive matter.”

“Nimileth? The Master Wizard?”

“Well, yes actually,” she said a bit awkwardly. The title still felt foreign and unfitting when paired with her own name. “I’m surprised you know who I am.” Not even Carahil knew.

“Word gets around to even our small priory, Master Wizard. Are you here on behalf of the Mages Guild? I wasn’t expecting any visitors today. Certainly not one so early in the morning.”

Nim shook her head and then paused, drawing a deep breath. “No, I come at the request of our late Emperor.”

“Emperor Uriel Septim?” Jauffre repeated, his tone shifting sharply.

Nim covered a grimace and carried on. “Yes. I admit it’s quite shameful how long it’s taken me to finally see this through. He asked that I deliver this to you before- before assassins claimed him. It was the last thing he said to anyone.”

She approached Jauffre and removed the Amulet of Kings from her pocket. Upon setting it on the desk before him, she noticed how his shoulders tensed, a vein popping along his temple as he clenched his jaw. His eyes flickered from the red gemstone to Nim and back again before he met her with a firm, hard glower.

“How did you get this?” he demanded. “What do you know of the Emperor's death?”

With a subtle movement, Jauffre reached for the hilt of the blade strapped to his side. Nim followed the motion with her eyes and quickly flicked them back to meet his harsh stare

“There’s no need for that,” she said stiffly.

“Then you better explain yourself. Now.”

“I was with the Emperor on the night of his assassination,” she began, keeping Jauffre’s blade in her peripheral vision as she spoke. “I was being held in the prison cell through which he and his guards had sought to escape the Imperial City. I travelled with them through the Aylied ruins and it was there that the assassins found him. He got isolated from the rest of the Blades during a skirmish, and an assassin came and slayed him right in front of my eyes. I think he knew the end was coming. I don’t know if this makes sense to you, but he claims he foresaw these events. In his dreams.”

Nim paused for a moment to gauge Jauffre’s reaction. He was listening intently, lips drawn tight in a bloodless line as he stared her down, his focus never straying. She continued.

“Just before the Emperor died, he gave this amulet to me and asked that I bring it here to you. I don’t know why he trusted me with it. I’m sure you don’t either. He said he saw me in his dreams and that I was to bring it to you where you will keep it hidden from the Prince of Destruction.”

Jauffre broke away from his severe scowl and quirked a brow. “This Prince of Destruction?”

She nodded, and Jauffre shook his head.

“Tell me what he said. Tell me exactly what he said.”

Nim did her best to recall the events of that night, the memory she had spent years burying deep into the recesses of her mind where unspeakable things go to die.

“He said, ‘Jauffre alone knows where to find my last son. Find the last of my blood, and close shut the marble gates of Oblivion.’”

“Who have you told about this?”

“No one."

"Are you certain? Do not lie to me."

Nim glared at the monk harshly. "I've been doing my best to forget the whole night happened. I've told absolutely no one.”

Jauffre nodded contemplatively, studied her for a long moment before continuing.

“The Prince of Destruction, Mehrunes Dagon, is one of the lords of Oblivion. The Emperor's words suggest that he perceived an impending threat from Dagon himself, but all the scholars agree that the mortal world is protected from the Daedra of Oblivion by magical barriers.”

“Well, I whole heartedly disagree with that.” Nim scoffed softly and tried to hide it by clearing her throat. The noise elicited sounded almost like laughter.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing,” she quickly deflected. “Please ignore me.”

Jauffre narrowed his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders had begun to unwind. He breathed deeply before speaking.

“It is true. The Dragonfires are dark. It is possible that Tamriel now lies susceptible to Daedric interreference. As unlikely as your story sounds, I believe you. Only the strange destiny of Uriel Septim could have brought you to me carrying the Amulet of Kings, but I find it highly suspicious that such a large amount of time was allowed to pass before you sought me out. The Emperor entrusted you with one of the most sacred artifacts of the entire empire. Why exactly did you take two years to deliver it?”

“I suppose I forgot about it.” Nim shrugged. “Pushed it from my mind and made myself busy elsewhere.”

Jauffre looked at her incredulously. “You forgot that the Emperor, Uriel Septim himself, bestowed the Amulet of Kings upon you?”

“Repression is one hell of a narcotic.”

“Clearly.” He sighed. It was a drained, exhausted sound that suggested he had aged ten years within the duration of their conversation. “Faulted or not, the Emperor trusted you enough to bestow this upon you rather than one of his own Blades. He saw something in you.”

“He didn’t really have many options,” Nim admitted with a crooked expression. "Can't say he chose very wisely."

Jauffre brushed the comment aside. “You and I are now one of the few who know of the existence of Uriel Septim’s illegitimate son. Many years ago, I served as Grandmaster of Uriel's bodyguards, the Blades. One night the emperor called me into his room where a baby boy lie sleeping in a basket. He never told me anything else about the baby, but I knew it was his son. There is another heir to the throne.”

“Is he still alive?”

Jauffre nodded. “We’ve been keeping track of his whereabouts at all time. When assassins came for the Emperor and his sons, we were sure they would find him too, but even after the two years since the night of the assassination, he remains alive.”

“Why haven’t you tried to place him on the throne then?”

“Without the Amulet of Kings there was no way to legitimize his claim to the empire. No one would accept a bastard as the Emperor without proper substantiation.” Jauffre picked up the amulet and carefully examined each inset along the pendant. “This changes thing.”

“Well,” Nim shrugged awkwardly, “that’s good I guess.”

“His name is Martin. He is a priest in the Chapel of Akatosh in Kvatch.”

“Kvatch?”

“Yes, Kvatch.”

Nim shifted on her feet. She didn’t like where this was going. Surely nothing more was needed from her, right? She had delivered the amulet. She had followed through with the Emperor’s wishes. Her work here was done.

“Oh. That’s nice to hear,” she said with a slight nod. “Good for him.”

“If the Emperor trusted you enough to deliver this amulet and the message to find his son, he must have believed you could help us.”

“Well, I think that’s a bit of a stretch. The man was dying, and like I said, he didn't have many other options.”

Jauffre sighed again, this time sounding agitated. “I will help you where I can, but you must go to Kvatch and find Martin at once. Now that we know the Amulet of Kings is safe, we will be able to relight the Dragonfires and prevent whatever peril the Emperor foresaw.”

Nim took a step backward, her face contorting with confusion. “Excuse me? You’re Grandmaster of the Blades. Why should I be the one to retrieve the heir? Don't you have Blades to fulfill these type of missions? I’ve hardly proven myself a reliable sort.”

“If the Emperor put this much faith in you, then so must I. So must we all. The fewer that know of Martin's existence the better, and if the Prince of Destruction seeks to bring the monstrosities of his realm to the mortal plane of Tamriel, we will all be in danger. Yourself, and the guild you represent included.”

“Oblivion’s really not so bad, I’ve come to find,” Nim said, twisting the chain of her amulet between her fingers. Jauffre stared on as though the woman had sprouted a second head. “Besides, this group of assassins appears to be at a standstill. If nothing has happened in the past two years, why should anything worse happen now?”

“I ask you kindly to please bring Martin safely to the priory. It is in the best interest for every living soul in Tamriel that the Dragonfires be relighted. I will ask nothing more of you once you complete this task.”

“Well, Talos forgive me for saying so, but I think that statement is a load of guar dung, Father Jauffre. If I do this for you, I know it will never end. If this threat from Mehrunes Dagon is as dangerous as you seem to believe, then securing the throne will not be so simple. What else would you ask of me then?”

Jauffre stood to his feet and pocketed the Amulet of Kings. He circled around the desk until he stood face-to-face with the small elf. From the scabbard at his side, he withdrew his blade and with alarming calm he readied his stance for battle.

Nim startled at the monk before her. "What in Godsblood do you think you're doing?"

“Either you will help us, or you will not. There isn’t time to contemplate your options. There are many preparations to be made to ensure the Empire’s safety. I’m afraid I have said too much to let you walk freely unless you swear your loyalty to the Blades and the Emperor we serve. What is your response?”

She eyed the old Breton as though he were threatening her with a broomstick instead of a sword. “You’re joking,” she said with a dismissive scoff. “It took me two years to complete the Emperor’s orders. What makes you think I would be a suitable servant of the Empire now?”

“I am not joking. Now what say you? Do you swear your loyalty to the Blades?”

Nim laughed heartily and when Jauffre hadn’t budged in the slightest she realized his intentions were serious. She frowned. “Do I really have a say?”

“You can speak now, or you may meet your fate at the end of my sword.”

“I’m not going to fight an old man in the house of Talos,” she sneered. “You must think me some brute.”

“Answer. This is your last opportunity.”

“Fine,” she hissed. "Now get that thing out of my face."

The monk looked surprised at first and then content. Slowly, he lowered his sword.

“Good,” he said with a firm nod, the harshness of his features falling away. “Find Martin and secure his return at once.”

Nim furrowed her brow, crinkled her nose as though smelling something foul. “This must be some form of punishment. It’s a cosmic joke, I just know it is. I’ve spent the past ten years avoiding Kvatch with astounding success.”

“This is a blessing,” Jauffre corrected her. “The Divines have granted you the opportunity to make a real, lasting change in the trajectory of Tamrielic history.”

“Oh, lucky me,” she mumbled. “Becoming a lackey for the Imperials is all I’ve ever dreamed of.”

Once more, Jauffre ignored her. “The Empire shall be restored as long as you follow through. What higher honor could you hope to achieve?”

“Oh, yes. Honor. The only thing I live for,” Nim mumbled. She squeezed her eyes shut and ran her hands through her hair, pulling it back in a manner that looked terribly painful. Jauffre winced slightly as he heard the elf hiss through her teeth.

_Just what are the Gods playing at_, she wondered. Uriel must have been an impossible fool to think she, of all the debauched fiends on Nirn, could help restore a crumbling Empire. Could it truly be part of a plan ordained by the Divines? They certainly did work in odd ways like that.

Nim concluded that this must be the Gods way of punishing her for all her wrongdoings. By forcing this responsibility upon her, they must be forcing her to repent, to make up for all the destruction she had caused since leaving her life as a castle maid.

Nim groaned and tugged on another fistful of hair. She cursed herself under her breath. How had it come to this? Wasn’t she damned enough already? Oh, how Mephala was surely laughing at her from the Spiral Skein.

Jauffre stared quizzically at the woman who was now mumbling colorful obscenities under her breath. “Well,” he began again, clearing his throat. “To Kvatch with you then.” He gestured toward a chest across the room from her. “You are welcome to anything you find inside. May it help you in returning Martin safely.” 

The sound of his voice snapped Nim back to reality, and she found him looking at her with a mix of resentment and confusion.

“Right,” she said sharply as she regained her composure. “I won’t be needing anything else from you. You’ve helped quite enough already. Apparently, I have some where to be now. Good day.”

And with that she turned quickly toward the stairwell, shoving past Brother Marcel who had been eaves dropping for Gods know how long. Nim had neither the patience nor the well-breeding to even feign an apology and so she stalked out the priory house, a blasphemous curse hot on her breath.

* * *

Kvatch stood in a blaze. Nim had dreamed of a moment like this several times in her youth while working in the castle kitchens. She had dreamed of burning this wretched city to its bones and fleeing from that miserable, unremarkable life through the rubble of the walls that had entrapped her, but never in her most horrific, revenge-addled childhood fantasies could she have imagined the screaming that accompanied such ruin.

Thick, black smoke billowed upward into a cracked, red sky, and the further she climbed up the winding hillside, the stronger the scent of sulfur grew. The screaming grew louder too. Pained cries. Hopeless cries. Howls of pure, primal terror that made the world ripple around her. Ash settled like snow on the road before her, suffocating all it touched in darkness.

Nim directed Shadowmere off the road and slipped out of the saddle. The horse snorted in response.

“It’s all right,” she told the horse and secured her belongings in the saddlebags at her sides. “I suddenly feel as though I’ve fallen into a bad dream, and I don’t seem to recall how it ends. You best stay here, okay?”

Nim wasn’t sure if the horse understood her, but she had gotten into the habit of speaking with her as though she did. Since leaving Anvil, they had been on the road for four days now. Two spent on the way up to Weynon Priory. Two back down to Kvatch. Travelling no longer felt like a solitary experience, not with Shadowmere, and for that Nim found herself grateful. The horse and her repartee of snorts and whinnies made for surpassingly lovely company.

She left Shadowmere with a few apples and a handful of oats which Shadowmere readily accepted. She grunted happily. At least Nim thought it was a happy grunt. In trurht, she was still learning them.

Upon rounding a bend, Nim spied a make-shift camp that had been built to hold the surviving and wounded who had somehow managed to make it out of the burning city. The people there huddled together in shared terror, some crying as they clutched each other, others lying unnervingly still and staring blankly into the blood-red sky. What had they seen, Nim wondered. What was happening up on the hill?

Her thoughts were quickly cut short as an Altmer man bowled into her. He had been running down from the city as though his life depended on it and stared at Nim with blood-shot eyes that were as wide as pearls.

“What are you doing? Turn back!” he shrieked. “Run! Run while you still can!”

Nim tried her best to not look alarmed. The man who had just pummeled her looked plenty distressed for the two of them. “What happened here? Why is the city on fire?”

“Godsblood, you don't know, do you? The Daedra came for us in the night. There were glowing portals outside the walls! Gates to Oblivion itself!”

Nim's eyes widened curiously. “Oblivion, you say?”

“We’re all that’s left,” he said, gesturing toward the refugee camp filled with despondent, shattered people. “Everyone else is dead, and the Daedra-- nothing can stop them.”

“Is there a priest in the encampment?”

“A priest?” The Altmer nearly laughed. “You think the Gods can help us now?”

Nim glanced at the smoke twisting into the air behind him. The roars of Daedra and the screams of their victims echoed off the walls of the city's ruins. "Certainly not," she said flippantly and pressed the question again. “I’m looking for Brother Martin. Is he here?”

“No, he took others inside the temple. If he’s still in the city, he’s as good as dead. The guards think they can stop it. They think they can take back Kvatch, but the Daedra will be here any minute, I'm telling you. Run while you can!”

With that, the man fled down the road, leaving Nim standing silent as she digested the new information. It would be just her luck to find the priest dead in this rubble, but surely the Gods wouldn't be so easy on her. They'd make her walk over coals before this was all over. Coals at the very least!

Nim proceeded up the hill until the city wall was fully visible. A rudimentary barricade had been erected along the road. She weaved around the fence lines, drawing closer to the source of the battle cries. Bodies of citizens, guards, and horrible, twisted creatures littered the ground before her, but still she carried forward. The sky above was now completely veined in crimson streaks and swirling black clouds. It spewed thick clumps of ash that blotted out the sun, and thunderous crashes of storm light masked the sounds of screaming men throwing their lives into battle.

At the gates of Kvatch stood a giant marble spire wreathed in orange flame. She knew immediately what it was. A door to Oblivion.

“Stand back, Civilian. Head down to the encampment at once!”

Nim looked around with her blade drawn, her eyes jumping from the dead bodies on the ground to the panicked huddle of guards who stood at the ready, waiting for the next onslaught of Daedra to pour out of the fiery gate. Was this what the Emperor had warned her about? Was this the work of Mehrunes Dagon?

“This is no place for you,” the voice shouted again. A firm hand encircled her bicep, and Nim looked up to find a drained, exasperated guard attempting to drag her back down the path she had come from. “There’s no telling when more of them will come out of that infernal Oblivion Gate. You’d best stay at the encampment and leave the defense to us.”

“I need to get inside the city,” she told him calmly and sunk her heels into the hard soil.

The guard stopped in his tracks and peered down at her with a dark, heavy glare. “You what?”

“I need to get inside the city,” she said again and pried herself out of his grasp. She surveyed the scene around her, found the portal barring any and all access to the city gate. She sighed. Coals indeed.

The guard beside her breathed deeply. “I don’t have time for this,” he said, more exhausted than angry. “If you’re intent on getting yourself killed by loitering about this hell-pit then—”

“Great, then I'm going inside.”

“Are you blind, girl?” The guard spat. “You can’t get into the city. Look at the gates! It’s impossible to reach them with the portal blocking the entrance.”

Nim shook her head quickly. “That’s not what I meant.” And without waiting for the guard to ask for clarification, she bolted off into the maws of the obsidian gate, disappearing through the maelstrom of spitting, orange flame.

* * *

For a Daedric Prince, Nim knew surprisingly little of what to expect from entering a portal into another Daedric realm, but she knew one thing for certain. The Deadlands were nothing like the Shivering Isles.

She found herself laying on her side, choking out thick clouds of ash from her lungs as the scent of sulfur and charred flesh accosted her senses. Pressing herself to her knees, she surveyed her new surroundings. The ground below her was made of dark metamorphic rock that was furrowed with weblike cracks from which steam hissed against her ankles. A scorched body burned beyond recognition lay mere feet in front of her, and beyond that, stretched an endless sea of lava. Several scamps patrolled its shoreline, and though scamps were hardly a formidable foe, Nim guessed that the worse that this realm had to offer was not far away. She wiped the sweat from her brow and rose to her feet.

Nim took a few hesitant steps forward and proceeded to climb the jagged stone cliff beside her to find a clearer vantage point to scout out the landscape. There were no trees here, but there were plants. Blood grass and spiddal grew in sparse clumps, and Harrada creepers climbed down the face of the cliff. She soon learned that they were a nasty plant for more than just their alchemical properties. The harrada whipped its spurred vines across her limbs, lashing out at her when she stood within its reach. Nim sliced the plant off the rocks with a hack of her blade, and after a long minute of staring at the vile plant in disdain, she dug up its roots and pocketed them with a smug, gratified smirk. Even the flora here were vicious, it seemed.

The plains of the Deadlands were largely void of architecture save a few looming gates and menacing stone obelisks that spat fire across the pathways sporadically.

_Of course they spat fire_, Nim groaned inwardly. _Plants that spewed poison, seas of roiling, molten rock. _She rolled her eyes scornfully. _The__ Daedra and their theatrics!_

In the distance, dark towers stretched into the red, crackling sky, and Nim decided that those was her best chance at finding any machinery that held this portal open.

She moved toward the towers, traversing through rocky outcroppings and staying as far away from the harrada and cleared, open paths as possible. She knew nothing of what the Prince of Destruction was capable of at his full strength, but if the ruins of Kvatch were any indication of his powers, she had no intention of facing it one-on-one.

Soon, her attention was drawn to the sound of ringing steel and a man howling in the heat of battle. She peered over the cliffside to find a lone man donning Kvatch cuirass facing off against a band of clanfears. Nim quickly scaled down to a lower outcrop and picked the off daedra cleanly with her bow. Not expecting to find any mortal man or mer of these planes, she scurried down the rocks to find out what brought a lone guard through the portal. Had he been taken? Had he come willingly? Perhaps he had learned something she could make use of. 

When she reached him, the guard was hunched over and bracing himself against his knees as he regained his breath. “Praise the Divines,” he rasped out between breaths. “I thought for sure I was done for.” He looked up to greet his savior and his face fell blank with confusion. “You’re not one of the Watch. Who are you?”

“Are you alright?” Nim asked instead of answering him. She looked him over, pointed to a deep gash across his thigh and grimaced. “We should do something about that. Quickly.” Without waiting for permission she dropped to a knee and let a wave of healing magic spread across the man’s thigh. “Are there more of you here?” she questioned, but the man remained unresponsive as he watched the skin of his leg stitch itself back together under the blue, healing light. A flicker of hope was reignited in his eyes.

The guard regained control of his voice after a hard swallow. “Did Savlian send you?” He asked, his eyes trained on Nim who was now checking their surrounding for approaching daedra.

“I don’t know who that is,” she admitted.

“Savlian Matius, the Captain of the guard. If he didn't send you, who did?"

"Nobody. I walked in on my own."

"You did what?"

The guard looked her up and down, and then at the dead clanfears. His face was positively stricken with horror, but Nim simply stood there with one hand on her hip, the other brushing loose strands of her ponytail away from her face, looking much more inconvenienced than anything else.

Is this what her life had dissolved into, a series of inconveniences? She sighed and pushing aside her growing bitterness, turned the conversation back to the guard with a curious nod of her head.

"What about you?" she asked. "How did you get in here?"

"Savlian sent a battalion of us in here to try to close down the portal. We were set upon the moment we crossed through the barrier. The others… they were taken to the tower.”

“Who was taken? Which tower?”

“Menien and the other guards! I only managed to escape because the Butcher was there to distract them.”

Nim felt her heart leap into her throat. Her mouth filled with cotton and for a brief second, she struggled to form a coherent word of Cyrodiilic. “The Butcher?” she finally managed out. “What do you mean?”

“The Grand Champion! She was here! She was taken to the tower with Menien. If they’re together, that means there’s a chance that he’s still alive.” 

“Oh, no way in hell," she groaned, feeling the blood drain from her face. "Lorise is here? This is all some sort of sick, sick dream.” She drew a shaky breath and returned her focus to the lone guard. “What tower were they taken to?”

He pointed off into the distance, and Nim wasted no time in scanning the fiery landscape for a path that led to its base. She started off in the direction of the tower but was abruptly jerked backward as the guard held her by the shoulder.

“Wait,” he said, brow wrinkled in incredulity, “you’re not thinking about going after them.”

“I must,” Nim shrugged, looking rather resentful of her surroundings.

The guard shook his head in disbelief, his hand tightening on her bicep. “Who do you think you are traipsing off into Oblivion? You’ll get yourself killed! We should return to Kvatch and wait for backup--”

“No, trust me. This is fine. I’ve done something like this before,” she said, almost flippantly. Shaking off his grip, she swept the soot left by his handprint from her shirt and stalked off toward the tower. 

“By the Gods, you’re mad!” The guard shouted after her.

“That doesn’t matter,” she told him with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Go on then. Return to Savlian and defend the barricade. I’ll find Menien and close this gate.”

"But--"

"Just go. I've got to get inside that tower, and if you're not going to come with me, then what use is standing around stammering?"

"I can't let you go on your own. It's a death sentence."

"Are you going to come with me then?"

The guard looked down at his feet in shame. "I will if you need me too."

"No," Nim said, shaking her head firmly. "Don't play the hero. Be smart and save yourself. Defend Kvatch. If worse comes to worse, it will be a more honorable end then disappearing into Oblivion forever."

On that final remark, the guard watched as the elf scurried off into the distance, dodging fireball after fireball as she weaved through the barren Deadlands. She was a mad woman, he thought, that or she was dead set on getting herself killed.

* * *

The tower felt like a living thing. Fleshy pods of dismembered limbs were embedded into the walls, providing it with a life source, feeding it. As she pressed forward and climbed to the higher floors, the dark hallways pulsated around her as though breathing. It felt like walking into an open mouth.

At last, she came to the heart of the tower. It was room made of muscle, flesh, and sinew that wrapped around a central pillar of glowing orange light. Corpses of daedra lay strewn across winding platforms that stretched up toward the ceiling. Nim stepped over them cautiously and peered up to see the blurred outline of an armor-clad individual racing down from the mezzanine above her.

Before she could identify the approaching figure as daedra or guardsman, an arrow zipped through the air and struck the fleshy ground right beside her. She dodged away just in time to miss the next onslaught and pressed her back up against the far wall. The dull thud of footsteps made their way closer to her, and Nim readied her blade as she prepared a paralyze spell in her free hand.

Her attacker emerged from the floor above, racing down the platform with a bloodied sword drawn and hungry. Upon finding the small, soot-covered Nimileth standing wide-eyed against the wall, her attacker paused, and Nim too lowered her blade

“Nimileth? By the Gods! What are you doing here?”

Nim rushed forward and threw her arms around Lorise. The smell of sulfur and fresh blood clung so tightly to the woman’s hair that Nim felt her eyes stinging with tears as she choked back the acrid scent.

“You must go back. It isn’t safe here!” Lorise said, staring dumbfounded at Nim as she pulled away. She searched the small elf for signs of injury, sighing in relief for a brief moment when she found none.

“It’s not so bad,” Nim choked out and wiped her nose of the lingering smell of death. “How long have you been in here?”

“I don’t know,” Lorise admitted. “Hours. At least I think so. I arrived last night to report back to Mathieu and by mid-morning the Daedra had completely taken the city. We got separated while escaping. Did you see him out there?”

Nim shook her head. “No, but if he’s made it this far in the Brotherhood, I’m sure he can fend off a few daedra.” She walked to the edge of the platform and looked skyward, following the beam of light up to the roof of the chamber. “Where are we?”

“Dear Gods, I don’t know. I just want to get out of this bloody place! I entered with a group of guards in an attempt to close the gate, but they’re all gone now. The dremora took them. I’ve been trying to navigate the tower for hours now, but I’m such an idiot! I don’t know how any of this works! The daedra keep pouring through that door and I’m still no closer to figuring out how to leave.”

“We’ll navigate this tower. We’ll figure it out,” Nim told her calmly and gestured up to the platform above them. “What’s up there?”

“It’s a set of doors, but they just lead to more death. More daedra. More towers. I thought I’d seen all of the destruction this world could offer, but I could never have imagined something like this.”

“Gods, if this is any sign of what’s to come, I don’t imagine we’ve seen the worst of it.”

The pillar of flame hissed from its central basin, filling the room with bursts of light as it spat flare after flare. Lorise readjusted her posture and stared nervously at the younger elf. “What do you mean? What’s going to happen next?”

“We should keep moving,” Nim told her. “I’ll tell you once we’re free of this place.”

The pair of elves continued through the doors at the top of chamber. They proceeded through the tower, spiraling up winding hallways littered by charred bodies and various daedra. At the end of the corridor, they came to a large black door.

“It’s locked shut,” Nim said, and turned around to inspect the room for any more exits.

Lorise pressed against the door with all of her weight. When it didn’t budge, she pointed at the lock and then at Nim.

“Can’t you just… magic it open?”

Nim touched the door with her alteration spell and frowned. “No, it’s been enchanted to absorb spells. Maybe one of the Dremora that took the guards away was carrying a key?”

“This place is endless,” Lorise groaned. “Where do we even start?

“Come,” Nim directed her. “We passed a set of doors earlier. I don’t know where they lead to, but we might as well exhaust all our options.”

On the other side of said doors was a narrow walkway that spanned the distance from the central tower to its smaller neighbor. Lorise lead the way, seemingly unfazed by the sporadic gusts of ash-filled winds that blew past them. Nim followed after her and tried her best to keep from looking down, but there wasn’t much else in the vista to focus on save for the blood red haze of sky and the dense clouds of black smoke that rose from the fiery lakes below.

Lorise entered the neighboring tower first and kept to the walls as she peered up the spiraled staircase. Nim crept behind her and cast a detect life spell. She gestured to Lorise with a wave of her hand, indicating two figures lay in wait upon the platform above them. Lorise nodded, and without any further warning, she drew her blade and charged up the stairs, leaving Nim in a moment of panic as her legs struggled to follow suit.

By the time she reached the top of the stairs, Lorise was clashing steel with a Dremora clad in distinct daedric armor. The creature laughed with a horrible bellowing voice, or at least Nim thought the guttural sound was laughter. She hardly had time to nock an arrow when Lorise slammed her gauntleted fist across the Dremora’s face and knocked him to the ground. An awful gurgling hiss filled the air as she drove her blade through the creature’s throat, and it spasmed at her feet for an uncomfortable moment before falling still and silent.

Lorise looked around the platform with poised tranquility, shoulders relaxed and her free hand akimbo. “I thought you said there were two daedra up here.” Nim thought her tone sounded slightly disappointed.

“Gods, give me a warning next time you race off into battle, won’t you?” Nim said, catching her breath as the rush drained from her blood. “I’m not used to such high intensity skirmishes.”

She plopped down beside the dead Dremora and searched for the clasps by which to undo the heavy chestplate’s binding. With the cuirass removed, she quickly spied the key tied around the Dremora’s neck and breathed a soft sigh of relief.

“Found it,” she told Lorise and looked up to find the woman standing before a metal cage with her sword slipped through the rusted, bloodied bars. She was probing at a bald Imperial man in tattered clothing who was slumped against the far side of his cage. His aura of life source was dim, but not extinguished.

“Is he alive?” Lorise asked, prodding at the man’s shoulder.

“Not for much longer if you’re intent on skewering him through the heart with your blade.” At the mention of hearts, Nim glanced down at the Dremora below her. She traced the strange, unnatural marbling of his skin. Ink black and ashen grey.

“Oh, its Menien!” Lorise cried out. “Lucky bastard, I thought for sure he was a goner.” With a few hacks from her sword, she managed to break through the lock and haul the man out onto the platform. She laid him on his back and placed her ear close to his mouth, listened for signs of rhythmic breathing. “He sounds alive to me. Can you do anything for him? Maybe just a quick healing spell to be safe?”

Lorise glanced over to Nim and found her elbow deep in the Dremora’s chest. Thick, black blood coated her sleeves like oil. It dripped down to her trousers as she pulled forth the creature’s heart and worked to remove it of its attached vasculature.

“I mean, I know I’m not one to judge, but is that really necessary?” she asked Nim with soft, patient eyes as she watched her sever through the thick ascending aorta and rip the heart free from its owner.

“Dremora hearts are truly rare ingredients,” the younger Bosmer explained as she stood to her feet and wiped off the blood from her dagger onto her pants.

“Are they?”

“Oh yes. They’re prized for their restorative properties, and few other ingredients match their potency when brewing a silence poison.”

Lorise hauled the unconscious Menien onto her back and proceeded toward the stairwell. “Gods, just wait until I tell Vicente about this. He’ll laugh so hard he might just die of suffocation all over again.”

At the mention of Vicente, Nim felt her throat tighten. It squeezed the very voice from her lungs.

“Lorise,” she rasped out.

“What?”

_No_, Nim told herself, blanching. She couldn’t tell Lorise. Not here. Not now.

“What?” Lorise repeated with a curious smile. “Are you coming? Maybe we’ll find more dremora on the other side of the door.”

“Yeah,” Nim managed out, shaking herself back to the present and quelling the burning that grew behind her eyes.

* * *

Nim came to with her face pressed firmly into the cold, blood-soaked soil. The last thing she remembered of the sigil keep, was leaping into the blistering heat of the spiraling pillar of light. She heard footsteps around her, incoherent shouting. It sounded like a series cries at first, of fear and then of triumph. She attempted to press herself up to her knees but a crushing weight bore down on her back. When she tried fruitlessly to gasp for air, she thought for sure that she was dying, that the portal had swallowed her up and spat her out into the void.

“You did it! By the Nine you actually did it!”

More cheering came from above, and soon the weight was lifted off her back and she was hoisted up to her feet by a set of grasping hands.

“Nim, are you alright?”

She blinked the clumps of dirt from her lashes and found herself staring at Lorise. A cheering crowd of guards leapt and hooted victoriously just behind her.

“F-fine. Never been better,” she stammered out and shook her head to regain her bearings. “Did we close it?”

A gauntleted hand clapped her across her back and sent her flying forward into Lorise. “Did you close it?” She heard a familiar voice say and turned around to face the guard she had rescued from the clanfears back in Oblivion. “I’m Ilend by the way. Ilend Vonius. We all saw what you did. It was a marvel to behold, it was godly! Look,” he said, directing Nim’s eyes to the remnants of the spires that once contained the gate. Smoke whispered skyward from the black marble, and though black clouds of ash still hung heavy in the air, the sky was returning from a bleeding, cracked crimson to a deep, dark blue.

“You did it!” Ilend shouted. “And we sent those bastards hurling back to the cursed plane from which they came!”

The rest of the Kvatch watchmen drew closer, circling around her and Lorise. Nim stood speechless before the ruins of the gate, blinking in a state of awe and shock. Why now? Two years had passed since the Emperor had warned her of this threat from Mehrunes Dagon. Why now?

Was it because of Martin? Had someone overheard her conversation with Jauffre? Who could it have been?

“Ms. Audenius,” she heard a man say and looked up from her thoughts to meet the guard captain, Savlian Matius. “We cannot thank you enough for your bravery today. Because of you, hope has been restored to all of the citizens of Kvatch.”

Lorise held up a hand in protest and quickly shook her head. “Oh, it wasn’t me. If it were not for Nimileth, I’m afraid I’d still be wandering around those halls looking for a way to get out.”

“That’s not true,” Nim quickly deflected. The last thing she wanted was to bring attention to the fact that she was here. “You had killed all those daedra before I—"

“It is, and don’t you deny it. All I did was provide the muscle. Nim is the only reason we’re all standing here in celebration. She healed Menien too.”

“And she saved my hide,” Ilend added.

“And most important of all, she found the key to closing the gate.”

At that, Nim’s eyes grew wide. “The sigil stone,” she gasped and quickly fled from the group of praising guards to scour the ground in search of the small orb that had allowed her to close the portal.

It was by complete luck that she had become familiar with them in the previous months. When researching the portal to the Shivering Isles, Fathis had explained that powerful artifacts such as these were used by master conjurers to force an unbound Deadra into complete and total submission. He had speculated that they could also be used to open portals to Oblivion so long as the liminal barrier was weak enough. The extinguishing of the Dragonfires, he theorized, was just the debilitating force needed to weaken the barrier. It seemed his theory could now be confirmed, and Nim could only imagine the gloating that would ensue when she reported her findings to him.

“Is that what closed the gate?” Savlian asked as she brushed the small stone off on her shirt. “Is that some sort of key?”

“It’s a sigil stone,” Nim explained. “I have reason to believe this is what allowed a door between Oblivion and Mundus to be opened.”

Savlian’s expression grew skeptical. “And what would you know about that?” He had no reason to doubt her, seeing as she had just closed the portal that none of his own men could, but the sphere in her hand looked so unsuspecting and mundane.

“It was, um, a gut instinct, I guess.”

“She’s a Wizard at the Arcane University,” Lorise quickly butted in. “She’s one of the best there. She would know.”

“Lorise!” Nim cried out and flushed with embarrassment as she heard several of the guards around her break into a low whisper. 

“What? It’s true. I don’t know what they teach you at your fancy school, but you closed the damn Oblivion gate. Own up to it.”

“None of us have the time for this celebration anyway. Kvatch is still overrun with daedra, and I still need to get inside the city.”

Savlian turned toward Nim and offered her a small nod of appreciation. “I suppose it’s you I have to thank then. You'll be forever remembered as the Hero of Kvatch. What did you say your name was? Nimlieth?”

“Oh, please no titles," she begged him. She could hardly handle her current ones. _Silencer_, _Master Wizard_. What was next? Nothing she sincerely hoped.

“Nimithil, was it? No, Nimel--”

“Nim is fine,” she quickly interrupted before the guard could butcher any other pronunciation. “Just Nim. No Hero of anything, please.”

“Yes of course," he repeated with a serious of grateful nods. "I know you’ve done so much for us already but if you’re willing to help us take back the city, we would be honored to have the Hero of Kvatch join our assault. You’ve clearly demonstrated your expertise in battling the Daedra. We could use someone like you on our forces.”

"Oh my Gods," Nim groaned. All she really needed was to carve a path to the temple and escape as discreetly as possible with the heir. She didn't need people slapping honorifics to her name. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and attempted to focus on a mental map of the city she had grown up in. Gods how she hated Kvatch. If there weren’t innocent lives, or potentially the entire fate of the Empire, at risk she’d happily let the whole thing burn to ashes.

“I’ll help you secure the southern plaza but afterwards, I really must get to the temple,” she said with a hard expression. “I fear it’s the only way to prevent more destruction from befalling Kvatch.”

“What’s at the temple?” Lorise asked. Both she and Savlian awaited the answer eagerly. Just what was so important about the temple that made the woman risk running into Oblivion?

“Um, a priest.”

Lorise clucked her tongue and sighed deeply. “Feeling repentant are you? Yes, of course there are priests at a temple. What else? Pews, altars? Stained glass? I meant, what’s so important about the temple in Kvatch?”

Nim looked around at the ruin and corpses at her feet and toyed with the chain of the amulet. She shifted awkwardly on her feet before replying. “A priest.”

* * *

Martin looked on in a state of awe. A woman stood before him. An ash-coated, blood-drenched woman. She was small and very much unformidable, yet this, he had been told, was the person responsible for sealing off the portal to Oblivion that had been terrorizing Kvatch all day long. Even more staggering than her recent feat outside of the city walls was the fact that she stood before him now with the gall to crack mindless jokes about his identity as the late Emperor’s son in the middle of a Daedric invasion, and for what? What pleasure did she attain from speaking such blasphemy?

“I really don’t have time for this,” the woman sighed, “and quite frankly, neither does anyone else in this city. Now, will you come with me?”

This woman, this Hero of Kvatch as the guards had called her, stared at Martin expectantly, a lull of weariness weighing down her eyelids as she waited for him to once more deny her claims of his true parentage. Martin looked on in a state of awe.

“Is he hard of hearing?” She turned and addressed the other frightened people sitting in the chapel pews. “Can anyone tell me if he’s hard of hearing?”

“I hear you clearly,” Martin said sharply, “and I’m telling you, you have the wrong person. I’m just a simple—"

“Yes, yes, you’re a priest of Akatosh. Everyone and their scamp has told me this already, but that really has nothing to do with the price of kwama eggs, now does it. We need to see you out of here as soon as possible. I can’t possibly withstand another minute in this cursed city. Are you coming?”

Martin took a step backwards and bounced his gaze between Savlian, the Grand Champion (who happened to be standing idly by for reasons unknown to him), and the strange Bosmer. “Who are you?” he asked. “What do you really want with me?”

“I really want nothing to do with you,” the woman said bitterly. “I’ve spent the past two years avoiding this exact situation.”

Martin released a rough breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I just… don’t understand.”

“Two years ago, the Emperor and all of his sons were assassinated, do you remember that?” Martin nodded slowly. “I’m afraid what we’ve seen today was part of a long overdue invitation for you to join them.”

“My father was but a farmer,” he insisted once more. “I don’t understand how you think I could be related to our late Emperor.”

“Your father may have been a farmer well enough, but you are also the illegitimate son of Uriel Septim. He spoke to me before he died. He told me to find you. We must go now before anything else happens here. Who knows what they’ll send next if they believe you’re still alive.”

“What?” Martin grimaced. “You think they destroyed an entire city to get to me?”

“Look around you,” the woman said, gesturing at the beams of the collapsed roof. Through the wreckage he could glimpse the sky above. It swirled in dark plumes of smoke, and ash fell down like soft flakes of snow, shattering upon impact. “Would they cause all of this destruction to get to a simple priest?”

“But… why me? Because I’m the Emperor’s son?”

The woman continued to stare at Martin, the exhaustion on her face becoming more apparent with every second that ticked by. “Why would I lie to you?” she said at last.

“I- I don’t know. Nothing is making any sense at the moment.”

“Well, Brother Martin,” she sighed, “I’m afraid to say that it won’t get any better until we leave here. I know someone who can explain this all. He’ll answer any question you have.”

Martin looked around at the ruins of the temple. He had spent the past fifteen years of his life servicing the people of Kvatch within these walls, and what had he left behind?

He still felt like he was stuck in a dream, but no matter how hard he pinched or prayed, nothing would wake him from this hellish, fiery horror. And somehow it was only getting worse. 

“I don't know,” he croaked out, swallowing a stiff lump into his throat. “It's strange. I think you might actually be telling the truth. But what of the people here? They need me.”

The woman shrugged and did her best to offer a sympathetic smile. It was crooked, but genuine. “I think what they need most right now is an Emperor.”

Martin stared at the strange woman who was now eagerly gesturing for him to follow her out the chapel doors. Was it true? Was he to take the throne? How could the Gods possibly have ordained such a terribly cruel plan?

Anger churned like a furnace in his heart, and never before had he felt so alone, so abandoned. The woman up ahead was now walking swiftly toward the city gates, anxious for whatever reason to leave the entire city behind her. Martin trailed her through the debris of Kvatch. The Grand Champion followed behind. He cast one last glance at the ruined chapel, and more than anything, he felt afraid.


	38. Yours, in Darkness Eternal

**Chapter 38: Yours, in Darkness Eternal**

At the foothills of a rather undistinguishable and nondescript mountain in the Imperial Reserve, Martin lay on his side facing away from the small campfire and pretending to be asleep. His body ached for rest, but his mind was sharp and restless, the bite in the air doing him no favors. He nestled further into the collar of the robes and tried very hard to convince himself that he did not just allow himself to be abducted, but usurpingly, he found it difficult to fall sleep among strangers, especially strangers as deadly as these.

The women at the other end of the fire ring chatted quietly amongst each other, somehow still awake despite the long hours they had travelled on the perilous route toward Weynon Priory. Since leaving the smoking ruins of Kvatch, their trip had been spent largely in silence, but Martin had managed to learn a few things about his escorts along the way.

The younger of the two, Nimileth, was obviously leading them. She favored a bow and destruction magic in combat, and he had seen her paralyze a man twice her size and subsequently incinerate him to a vaguely human-shaped piece of charcoal in well under a minute. The second woman was the Grand Champion, and it became all too evident to him why she had earned her moniker _The Butcher. _During more than one skirmish, she had chopped a bandit into more pieces than he had digits to count on.

Though he wasn’t helpless in battle, Martin had provided remarkably little assistance while the women bested marauder after marauder that sprung from the bandit camps and fortresses tucked away in the wilderness of the Colovian Highlands. He had tried, but the woman had pushed him back, fearing for his safety. It made Martin feel like a terrible burdensome wretch, but it wasn’t like they really need his aid in the first place. if anything, Martin suspected he’d only get in the way.

Now, he quieted his breath and attempted to listen to what the women were saying. They spoke in low, hushed whispers, and if the menacing looking horse tethered to the tree beside him weren’t munching so vigorously on an innocent squirrel, he just might have been able to hear them clearly.

Lorise’s voice was first to cut through the crackling of the campfire embers.

“I didn’t know you were working for the _Empire_. The Blades really? You’re like an onion. Every time I think I understand you, _whoosh_, there goes another layer.”

“It’s not that simple, Lorise. I wish it were. I got myself caught up in all of this years ago thinking I could run from it forever. Now I don’t see an end in sight. I hardly feel like I’m in control of what’s happening in my life these days.”

“You leave the priest at Weynon Priory and pass him off to that old monk. The Empire is restored, and you’ve done your part in securing it. I don’t see why you’re getting so anxious.”

Nim sighed, audible even over the sputtering flames. “The thing is, I don’t think that will be the end of it. I can just… feel it.”

“Oh, so now you’re a soothsayer too?

“No. I guess we’ll be there tomorrow and if I’m wrong… then good for me.”

Martin stared off into the dark of the forest, and it felt like he was staring down a well. What lay for him at the bottom, he wondered. The young Bosmer seemed wary of whatever plans the Blades had disclosed to her, and the uncertainty in her voice left his stomach unsettled. He blinked, watched the play of light from the fire send his shadow dancing across the bare soil in front of him. He was waiting for a moment of clarity to dawn upon him. Some sign from the Gods that would explain why all this was happening now, happening to him. Martin blinked. The only thing he found in the gathering darkness beyon him was the eyes of Nimileth’s horse staring at him like a crimson red star, glittering in the night.

* * *

Nim sat awake, the crackle of the burning wood and the whistles on the mountain’s face her only company as Lorise and Martin drifted to sleep in the biting winter night. She shifted uncomfortably against the rock she was seated upon and stared down at her soot covered hands. Her entire shirt, once beige, was now dark grey, ash-stained, and splotched in blood. She could feel the ash under her nails, clogging up her pores, thick in her lungs like leaden air. She imagined she looked more daedra than elven after trekking through Kvatch’s ruins and then through the bandit-ridden forests. Weynon priory wasn’t so far away now, and she hoped that after returning their precious heir, she would be rewarded with a warm bath at the very least

_So this is the last hope of the empire,_ she thought to herself casting a curious glance Martin’s way. There was nothing discernably regal about his appearance, but it didn’t help that he was wearing scorched, tattered priest robes and sleeping on a patch of brown grass. Nim looked at him, _really _looked at him. She could have sworn she had met him before.

Hazel brown hair. Middle-aged. Soft features. Though his eyes were now closed she thought something about them had been familiar when she had approached him in Kvatch. They were a cold blue. A nowhere blue. Was it a resemblance to the late Emperor?

Had she met Brother Martin before?

A rustle in the leaf litter drew her attention away from her thoughts of the priest, and she looked down from her perch to see Lorise turning in her sleep. Strange, how peaceful even the deadliest woman could look in the throes of sleep. Her heart sank into her stomach like a stone.

She had to tell Lorise about Vicente. It just didn’t seem like the right time. Her throat clenched like a fist as she forced down a swallow, because she knew it would never be the right time.

Her body moved on its own, forcing her down from the small boulder until she stood right beside Lorise. She knelt down, one hand resting on the woman’s shoulder as she gave a gentle push.

“Lorise?”

“Hmm?” the woman murmured. “Is it my turn to keep watch?”

“I need to tell you about what happened at the Sanctuary.”

“Right now?” Lorise yawned and propped herself up on her elbows. She blinked up wearily, found Nim kneeling and silhouetted by the light of the flame. “What’s more to be said? You did what you needed to.”

Nim stared into the woman’s shadowed face and felt her mouth fill with coarse sand. Lorise continued blinking the lost sleep from her eyes, each flutter of her lashes casting reflections of silver moonlight back towards Nim.

The world stilled around her, all color within it sapped by the darkness of the winter night. Silence consumed their corridor within the highlands as though the wind too had lost its voice, and all Nim could hear was the hammering of her heartbeat flooding through her ears.

Lorise shifted her weight onto her other elbow and narrowed her brows, concern creeping into her gaze.

“What?”

A pause. A grimace.

“Vicente’s dead.”

A pause. A face blanching in shock.

“What did you just say?”

“I’m so sorry,” Nim rasped out. There was a strange quality to her voice as the words left her. Something akin to shattered glass being swept off porcelain tile. Broken. Irreparable. “He took his own life in the Sanctuary. I tried to stop him. I really tried, but he—"

Lorise interjected with a strangulated laugh, the sound manic and as it trailed off into the depths of her throat, desperate. 

“No,” she said. “What are you talking about? Why- why are you saying this?”

Nim cast a glance over her shoulder at the sleeping priest and lowered her voice to a whisper. “I tried to stop him. He said it was the only way to keep you safe. He said if the Hand knew he was still alive, they would come for me, and then for you.”

Lorise’s features harshened. She sat up completely and shook her head hard. “Vicente wouldn’t do that. He told me we were safe. Why would he lie? Why would he—"

“He said were all going to be safe. He told us both the same lie. But in the sanctuary, he—"

Nim stopped herself and swallowed stiffly to keep her tears from breaking, but in the same breath, warm tracks spilled forth and trailed down to the edge of her jaw. She put her hand over Lorise’s, a tear drop falling against it and mudding the ash and dried blood that coated the back of her palm. “Lorise, I _begged _him.”

“Stop it,” Lorise snapped and wrenched her hand away. “You’re wrong. He would never do that.”

“I watched him. I watched him go, and he told me to tell you that—”

“Vicente will tell me himself. He can tell me when I see him in Cheydinhal.”

“Please believe me,” Nim sniveled and watched helplessly as Lorise stood to her feet and began pacing the patch of flattened grass from which she rose. “Talk to me, Lorise. What do you want me to say if not the truth?”

Lorise shook her head, her eyes wide and distant. “You’re lying.”

“No.”

“Yes. Yes, you are.” She stepped away from the fire and nearly stumbled as she hurried past Nim with a foreign look about her features, one that Nim had never seen on Lorise’s face before. Not on the arena floor, not in the midst of battle.

Fear. Cold, bloodless fear.

Lorise hoisted her pack onto her shoulders and quickly secured her blade to the sheath at her waist before turning away from the campsite and toward the forest edge.

“Where are you going?” Nim called out and trailed behind her as she pressed forward into the surrounding darkness. Lorise moved quickly, as though the shroud of night was no hinderance to her at all. “Lorise, please don’t leave. At least let me tell you what Vicente said. Please don’t go back to Cheydinhal. Go anywhere but there.”

But Lorise did not respond, and though Nim could see her pulling away into the woodland with her night-eye vision, she did not follow.

* * *

Martin awoke to the smell of campfire smoke and cooked meat. The scent, while not at all unpleasant, served as a painful reminder that he was not dreaming. He didn’t open his eyes immediately but lay there with the golden swathes of light swirling against the underside of his lids for a long mindless moment. He didn’t want to open his eyes. He didn’t want this to be real.

Yesterday seemed like a lifetime ago. Kvatch was gone. The temple was gone. The Daedra that had brought the city to ruin were gone, but the death they wrought was forever.

He turned over in his bedroll and squinted his eyes open. Morning rays seared across them, blinding him for a few seconds as he adjusted to the light of day.

“Hey,” a small voice called out to him. Nim sat on the other side of the campfire, roasting what appeared to be a skinned squirrel or some small mammal on a stick.

Martin sat up and dusted the dirt from his robes. He cleared his throat, felt the hoarseness of ash and cinders climb down as he did so. “Good morning.”

“Sleep well?”

“As well as one might hope.”

“Rabbit?” She asked, offering up the stick in her hands.

Martin nodded. He hardly had time to think about his hunger while fleeing from Kvatch and it was only now that the great emptiness churning in his stomach had registered to him.

“Thank you.”

As he ate, he looked around at the surrounding forest, not nearly as sinister now as it had appeared to him under the silver light of the twin moons. The trees were barren, leafless and bold under the bright morning sun. It was such a bright day, it almost made him angry. So unnecessarily bright given the tragedies of the day before.

“Where’s the Butcher- er, I mean Lorise?”

“She left,” Nim replied coolly as she stood to her feet an began stamping out the fire. Martin looked up, his vision now clear, and saw her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen.

“Oh. Why, may I ask?”

“Arena things, I suppose.”

They left immediately after breakfast, again in silence, but as their journey took them through clearings and open meadows, Martin felt bold enough to speak up without the fear of drawing unwanted attention. He desperately needed a distraction, anything to quiet the mind of his memories from the night before.

“Are you a Blade?” he asked Nim. She glanced over her shoulder curiously. “I still don’t understand why you came to Kvatch in search of me.”

“No, I’m not a Blade.”

“How did you know to find me then?”

“I spoke with a Blade, and he told me how to find you.”

“But why?”

Nim shot him a quizzical look. He did say he wasn’t hard of hearing, correct? Perhaps he simply had a short memory span.

“Because you are the Emperor’s last living son.”

“No, I meant, why are you rescuing me? Why not a Blade?”

“Hell if I know,” she shrugged, and then regretted the carelessness of her tone. She offered Martin a half-hearted, apologetic frown. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just a stroke of dumb luck that brought us together. Lucky you, huh.”

“Is that really all it is?” Martin mused, more to himself than to his companion. “A twist of fate?”

“What else would it be? Why are we here at all? Why is anything the way it is?”

“Do you want me to answer that earnestly?”

Nim released a soft huff. Now was neither the time nor the place for philosophical discourse.

“So Priest,” she said, hoping to humor him, “are you going to tell me it’s all in our stars and that the Gods work in strange ways like that? Kvatch burning was just a necessary steppingstone for restoration of the Empire then?”

“Few can ever hope to understand the strange patchwork they weave of our destinies,” he said thoughtfully. “Some spend their whole lives attempting to answer such questions.”

“Yeah, and some of those people wind up mad.”

“Some of those people end up shaping the fate of Tamriel.”

Nim stopped in her tracks for a brief moment. If she had returned the Amulet of Kings after leaving the Imperial Prison, would Kvatch still be standing? Was all this needless death a product of her creation? Could it have gone differently? Could she have prevented it if only she had done what the Emperor asked?

Pushing the thought aside, Nim picked up her pace. “If we spent our whole lives trying to decipher the Gods plans for us, many of us would die of atrophy. Not all of us are destined for greatness, and truly great men don’t need the Gods’ blessing to be great.”

“Very true,” Martin nodded, “but courage and bravery are valued just as equally as humility or modesty in the eyes of the Divines. Not everyone will be an Emperor, a decorated general, or a brilliant scholar, nor must we be to serve purpose with our existence.”

“Purpose,” Nim scoffed unapologetically. “The Gods make riddles of our lives for their own amusement.”

“Much of the strife and pain we experience is self-inflicted. It’s brought upon us by greed and malice, the mortal sins of man, not by the will of the Divines.”

“Tell me then, Priest,” Nim said, a harsh, bitter note in her voice. “Why then are some born into this world with nothing, with the world ripped away from them before they could even speak while others were born into cushioned, opulent households where they need not work a day in their lives? What purpose is there for disease, for stillborns, for untimely, inescapable deaths? Some comfort it is to know that there is purpose in losing everyone I have ever loved.”

The footsteps trailing behind her came to a sudden halt, and Nim turned around to find Martin grimacing inwardly. A wave of guilt fell upon her and she pressed her palm to her forehead and sighed.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so contentious.”

“No,” Martin quickly corrected. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m a priest, for Talos sake. I know how intimate and personal a subject this is.”

They continued their walk in brittle silence, the landscape around them shifting from steep slopes and rolling hills to gentle, smooth understory the closer they drew to Chorrol.

“So,” Martin began again awkwardly, “who are you anyway?”

Nim chuckled, the vibrations feeling unfamiliar in her chest. “Nobody,” she replied.

Wrong question. Martin cursed himself. He should have seen that one coming.

“And you, your Majesty?” she asked, a playful breeze in her voice. “Who are you?”

“Don’t call me that, please.”

Nim laughed, the tension in her shoulders unwinding. “What will you do about it?”

Martin thought quietly for a moment as he trailed behind her. “I’ll call you the Hero of Kvatch.”

“Fair point.”

“Are you really a Wizard at the University,” he dared to ask.

“Yes,” she said. There was no point in lying.

“That doesn’t quite qualify you as a _nobody_.”

Nim shrugged. “Fancy titles don’t give you substance.

“I studied there too in my youth,” Martin offered, hoping a little rapport would put her further at ease. The silence of the journey was beginning to be too much for his busy mind. “I only ever achieved the rank of apprentice though.”

Nim looked back at him inquisitively, as though studying him. “What made you leave?”

“Too many restrictions. I grew impatient.”

“Why, not enough necromancy for your tastes?”

“No, nothing like that.” Martin blushed shamefully. He wasn’t proud of the life he had turned to upon leaving the Mages Guild. Sure, it wasn’t necromancy, but the reality wasn’t any better. “Anyway, why are we going to Weynon Priory?

“That’s where the Grand Master of the Blades is. I’m sure he has a long, well thought out plan to keep you safe and return the Septim bloodline to its rightful seat on the throne.”

“You sound very convinced.”

“It’s good practice to remain skeptical.”

“Do you have reason to doubt the Blades?” he asked, nervous of her answer.

“Not yet, but I’ve come to learn that nothing is ever so simple.”

And upon reaching Weynon Priory, she would find this sentiment to hold true.

* * *

When the last of the attacking assassins had been killed, Nim returned to the cleared patch of shrubbery where she had she left Martin and found him pacing the forest edge in a state of obvious distress. When she came into view, he paused to take in the fresh blood smeared across her face and drenching the sleeves of her tunic.

“I can fight too,” he said bitterly, releasing a rough breath as he stepped toward her. “I told you I was a member of the Mages Guild before I was a priest. I shouldn’t be standing idly by while everyone around me is risking their lives to protect the Emperor’s bastard.”

Without bothering to ask he lifted her arm and inspected it for signs of injury. Her shirt was torn in more than one place, by hands or by blades he couldn’t quite tell. To be safe, he let a wave of healing light engulf her.

“If everyone is risking their lives to protect you, I’d expect you’d be a little more grateful and try not to get yourself killed,” Nim said, watching as he worked his mending spell. She wasn’t injured at all, but she kept that information to herself, suspecting Martin would feel better if he thought he was making himself useful.

“I can’t stand feeling this helpless,” he sighed. “If there is danger, I should stand beside those fighting and face it too.”

Nim met his solemn gaze and frowned, offering sympathy the only way she knew how. She couldn’t possibly understand what he was going through. All she knew was that she couldn’t let him die in her care.

“I would say it gets better, Martin, but I think I would be lying to you. If you are the last heir to the Septim dynasty, I doubt you’ll be allowed to throw yourself into the heat of battle very often.”

Martin shook his head in resignation and brushed his hair back against his temples. “Well. Thank you for not lying to me, I guess.”

“Come.” Nim gestured over her shoulder. “Jauffre will want to meet you now that the attack has been quelled.”

The priory house was in shambles, the door but a hunk of splintered wood. Dead bodies clad in red robes littered the small foyer, and Prior Maborel was now working tirelessly to drag them to the center of the dining room. Nim walked over to the steadily growing pile and inspected their strange attire. The silver mail they had donned during the assault had vanished, seemingly into the air, just like conjured daedric armor.

She knelt down and rooted around in the pockets of the nearest body, found nothing but small vials of assorted potions and poisons. Nothing else identifiable could be found and the only distinguishing mark on their clothing was the engraving on the clasp of the robes. A setting sun, or perhaps a rising one.

Before turning her attention back to Martin, a face among the dead caught her eye. A face she thought she recognized dressed in the same red robes of the other assassins. Brother Marcel? Could it be?

“Your suspicions are correct, child,” Jauffre said from the top of the stairs. He descended slowly, his face haggard and wan and the regret heavy on his brow. “Brother Marcel has been working for Dagon’s men this entire time. He turned on us not long before you arrived with Martin. He joined us a year after the Emperor’s assassination, probably waiting for the day you delivered the Amulet of Kings to me. He must have heard us speaking about Martin. How else would they have known to strike Kvatch? The timing of it all… I should have suspected it.”

Nim cast a final glance at the dead Breton assassin and then looked back to Jauffre.

“I mean he was acting rather suspicious, sneaking about in the dark hours of morning with his secret letters and such.”

“And you didn’t say anything about this sooner?”

Nim narrowed her brows at his accusatory tone.

“I don’t know what you monks get up to out here. I was visiting for an hour at the most. How was I to know he was a double agent in that time?”

Jauffre sighed, looking remorseful. “There was no way for you to know,” he said and shook his head. “If anyone is to blame for the amulet’s disappearance, it is I.”

Nim blinked in shock. “What did you say?”

“Because of Marcel’s betrayal, the Amulet of Kings is now gone.”

“Gone?” Nim repeated, her face scrunched unpleasantly. “What do you mean it’s _gone_? How is it gone? Where did it go?”

“Taken. Stolen. Purloined. The assassins escaped with it in their possession. That’s what I mean by gone.”

“You’re telling me I stashed the amulet under the floorboards of a Waterfront shack for two years and it was safer there than with the Grand Master of the Blades?”

The monks in the room gasped audibly. Jauffre blanched.

“You did _what_ with the Amulet of Kings?”

Nim waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Oh, get over yourselves,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “It was safe, wasn’t it?”

Martin too looked unsettled. “Two years? You’ve been holding on to the Amulet for two years while the throne sat unoccupied? For what reason?”

Nim gestured to the wreckage around them. “Does it matter now?” she asked, irritated.

Jauffre released a loud, defeated groan and ran his hands through his grey hair. “Dwelling on the past wwill not help us now. The enemies have defeated us at every turn.”

“That’s not true. Martin is safe,” Nim said and nodded toward the Priest, who shifted awkwardly and attempted to stand straighter as all eyes in the room turned to him.

Jauffre looked at him thoughtfully. The brief moment of silence seemed to calm him. “And so the heir lives on,” he said. “Brother Martin, forgive me. What an awful introduction to the order sworn to protect you and the Empire’s throne.”

Martin forced a strained grin. “I’m sure your first impression of me is hardly any better.”

“We are all grateful that you have been brough to us safely, but without the Amulet of Kings, the Dragonfires cannot be relit.”

“There must be a way you can recover it,” Nim said. “Anything can be tracked down with enough resources.” People even. She learned that very well by working for the Gray Fox.

“What’s more important is to secure that which we do still possess. My place right now is at Martin’s side. We need to get him to Cloud Ruler Temple.”

Nim took this as her signal to leave, her usefulness here having been depleted. “Martin,” she said, turning toward the obviously uncomfortable priest. “I have no excuse for failing the Emperor. I am glad to have served you in what little way I could. I hope your reign is long and prosperous.” She added a rather informal bow, and nodded toward Jauffre who looked at her with furrowed brows.

“Where do you think you’re going?” the Blade Master questioned.

“Me? Home. To the University. Anywhere else, really. What more can I do?” She said, and immediately regretted the final question that left her lips, hoping that Jauffre didn’t take it as an invitation to provide her with further assignments.

“You’re abandoning the heir in the middle of this mayhem?”

“Abandoning?” Nim frowned. Jauffre made it sound so much worse than it truly was. “I brought him here in one piece. Look at him, totally and completely free of injury.” Nim brushed the dust off Martin’s shoulders and the priest once again shifted awkwardly as Nim now probed him and spun him around like a show pig. “Jauffre, I really don’t see why you’re so intent on asking for my assistance when I’ve proven myself incredibly reluctant and unreliable.”

“You helped defend against the attacking assassins,” the old Breton reminded her. “You brought Martin back. You closed the Oblivion gate in Kvatch. I think that more than makes up for your delayed delivery of the Emperor’s last instruction.”

Nim glared at Jauffre, unconvinced. He seemed awfully eager to have her join in his efforts and could not for the life of her understand why.

The Breton continued.

“I doubt Kvatch will be an isolated incident, and you are the only one who knows what exactly it takes to close another gate. Clearly, we have need of your insight, if not also your prowess in battle.”

Martin spoke up next, his voice soft and apologetic. “Nimileth, I know it’s not my place to ask, but please, will you come with us? Jauffre’s right. You’re a competent fighter and at the very least, you can tell us what danger to expect from Mehrune Dagon’s cult. You’ve fought them before, the Daedra too. You’ve seen the destruction and survived after traversing his own plane of Oblivion.”

Nim eyed Martin in a state of deep ambivalence. It was such a polite, desperate request that she felt like a monster for the mere thought of denying it.

“Please,” Martin continued. “I shudder at the thought of facing this alone. I haven’t many friends in this world now. You may be the most familiar person left in my life.”

Martin’s sad, frightened blue eyes stared into her and she felt her heart drop like a stone into her belly. What was it about this priest that seemed so familiar to her?

Guilt began to gnaw into her sides. It climbed up from her stomach into her throat, sitting at the back of her tongue, bitter and biting. She swallowed hard. Looking into the priest’s eyes felt just like looking into the eyes of the Emperor before assassins claimed him.

“Well,” she said, clearing her throat. “What a sore excuse for a friend I’d be if I left you on your own now.”

A flicker of hope ignited in Martin’s eyes. “Does that mean you’ll come?”

“Are we friends?”

“We’ve already argued about religion and philosophy. Doesn’t that make us friends?”

Nim found that she could not turn away no matter how utterly disinclined she was to become yet another mindless errand girl for a body of higher authority. How did she keep getting herself into these situations?

But this felt different. She wasn’t acting as a puppet for the Gray Fox or the Black Hand. She wasn’t cleaning up after the Council’s mistakes. This was not about the hedonism and promise of glory that accompanied of theft and murder. It wasn’t even about the satisfaction that she attributed to scholarly pursuit. Martin was asking her to help restore a shattered empire. To _heal _it. This felt different. This felt right.

“Gods be damned,” she cursed. “You priests and you’re appeal to goodwill.”

Martin smiled, small but grateful. “Thank you. You don’t know what this means to me.”

“Well let’s get going then,” she nodded to Martin and then to Jauffre, ”before all my good nature dwindles away.”

* * *

Nim felt guilty when she finally left Martin. Even after spending nearly a week with him since rescuing him from Kvatch, it still didn’t feel right, leaving him alone in that echoing temple surrounded by dozens of watchful eyes. At least he didn’t seem as nervous as when they had first arrived. The Blades and the servants at Cloud Ruler Temple fed him well, kept him warm in that cold, mountain retreat. Nim wasn’t particularly fond of the climate up in the Jeralls, especially not in winter, but Martin had taken to setting up his study in front of the large roaring fireplace of the foyer. He seemed content there, as content as one could be given the circumstances.

Martin had understood why she needed to return to the University and had wished for her safe return. She did have her Council duties to attend to, not to mention that Jauffre had sent her to the Imperial City with a mission to find Baurus, the Blade that had accompanied the Emperor on the eve of his assassination. Apparently he had been working quite diligently on uncovering the identity of the mysterious cult that worshipped the Prince of Destruction. She was now tasked with aiding him in his research. It seemed a fitting job for a scholar. Nim was fairly experienced when it came to learning how unsavory sorts did their bidding.

Following her long trek south, Nim arrived on the University grounds to a peculiar greeting. The battlemages stationed at the gate saluted her, to which Nim replied by saluting back out of sheer confusion. As she walked the central rotunda, the older mages nodded at her approvingly. Some simply stared in awe or maybe dread. It was hard for Nim to tell in passing. Many of the younger students pointed and broke out into hushed murmurs as she passed, and Nim was left wondering if she had sat in something unsightly that was now staining the back of her robes. Craning her neck to peer behind her, she found no smears or splatters, and so she shrugged off the gawkers and proceeded to the Arch-mage’s lobby.

Bothiel bounced to her feet as Nim entered, rushing to the smaller Bosmer with an excited grin splitting her face.

“And so the Hero of Kvatch graces us with her presence!” she cheered. Nim blushed furiously and thanked Stendarr that no one else was in the lobby to witness such a ridiculous display of affection.

“No, no, no. Not here. Not in the Archmage’s lobby,” Nim protested. “I will not be paraded around like a damned show pony at my own place of work. How did you even find out?”

Bothiel held up a copy of _The Black Horse Courier_ and beamed at her fellow Bosmer. “Read all about you and your feats in yesterday’s paper. There’s not a soul in all of the Imperial City who doesn’t know.”

“Oh, Stendarr on a stick. Tell me it isn’t so,” Nim lamented.

“It is. They even mentioned you by name.”

“By name?” Nim quirked a brow and glanced over to the newspaper in Bothiel’s hand. “Did they spell it correctly at least?.”

Bothiel nodded enthusiastically.

A hesitant smile inched at the corner of her mouth “Good.”

“Do you want to read it?” Bothieloffered her copy to Nim, who shook her head quickly, her small smile vanishing. “Oh, come on," the older Bosmer pressed her. "It’s pretty good stuff. Is it true what they said? That you shut down an Oblivion gate and drove the Daedra out of the city?”

“I did close it," Nim shrugged. "The mechanism wasn’t that complex. I can’t say that I did most of the fighting though.”

“I bet you were a ferocious sight.”

Nim admitted to that. “Yes, and I’m still coughing up the ashes from it. Say, is Raminus around? I’ve got to meet with him about what happened at Fort Ontus.”

Bothiel nodded. “In his room.”

As Nim made her way to the living quarters, her stomach knotted with terrible uncertainty. How long could she hide her true identity from him? How long could she mask the darkness lurking within her with these specious titles. _Hero of Kvatch. Master Wizard. _

What did he see when he looked at her? How many lies had she gotten away with? How many time had she lie to him and watch him force down his qualms because he _wanted_ to believe she was everything he had imagined her to be in his head.

And if one day he found out the truth? All Nim wanted was for him to hold her and tell her he still cared despite the horror she had wrought, but he could never know those things. She'd die before she told him.

She didn't deserve such esteem, and she was so terrified that Raminus would learn the truth. That one day he’d look at her and he’d just know.

She knocked on his door and let the doubt burn in her stomach as footsteps thudded from the other side.

“Hey,” she offered in greeting. In the doorframe, Raminus stood in his plain clothes, and she realized she had never seen him without his mages robes before. She looked at him for a long moment, brows raised as though she did not recognize him in such an informal appearance.

Raminus looked surprised to find her there and then eyed her curious expression as it wandered up and down his form. He cleared his throat.

“Hi,” he said warily. “Do you want to come in?”

“Yes, I do. Sorry for staring.” She walked into the room and Raminus gestured toward the lounging sofa. She took her seat and pivoted toward him, her hands folded demurely in her lap as she waited for him to join her. Raminus began a slow walk toward the sitting area, an achingly slow walk, she thought. He stopped when he reached the reading chair across from her and clutched the cushioned backrest in his palms.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to Fort Ontus,” she said.

“I told you that you didn’t need to be there. We had everything under control.” He looked away, toward the bookcase lining the wall, and sighed deeply. “You were right about there being a traitor on the Council all along. I still can’t believe it. I mean I can. I did believe it when you told me, but I can’t help feeling like I’m walking through a nightmare. Irlav's gone. Caranya's gone. It all feels so unreal.”

“I know what you mean,” Nim assured him, silently hoping he would come join her on the sofa. “I spoke with the battlemages you left stationed there.”

“You did?”

“Yes, but when I arrived you were already on your way to the University. I’m glad it’s been dealt with. I would have liked to have been there, but—”

Raminus gave her a knowing look that made her stomach turn on itself. “Got caught up in other things?”

She felt her face grow warm.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

"And I suppose I never will.” His voice was cold, uncharacteristically distant as he turned away from her once again.

She paused, her head tilting uneasily at his tone. “Why did you say it like that?”

"I—” Raminus waved a hand before him as though dismissing the thought, though he still refused to meet Nim's gaze. "No, it’s nothing."

“Raminus?”

“I realize that it’s none of my business if you don’t want to tell me where you spend all of your time away from the University.”

His voice bore that strange, biting quality again, and Nim felt her muscles tighten. He sounded faraway, as though upset and trying to quell it, but not trying to keep it hidden. At his maintained reluctance to look her in the eyes, she shifted in her seat.

“Is there something you want to say to me?” she asked softly.

Guilt surfaced in Raminus' expression, and he looked back to Nim with a grimace. “That was terribly inappropriate of me,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry.”

Nim offered him a crooked frown and pulled her legs onto the sofa. “Do you wish I was at Fort Ontus? Are you upset with me because of it?”

“No, that isn’t it. I read about you in the paper a few days ago and thought I would near die of a heart attack. Kvatch? An Oblivion gate? Truly, Nim. I think you’re intent on sending me to an early grave.”

“I- I’m sorry,” she stammered out. “I didn’t go out seeking a fight. I had business that way and the gate was there, and the city was on fire, and—”

“I know," he cut in gently. "I know, and it’s fine. It's your life and you'll do with it what you will.” He approached the sofa and sat beside her, taking her hand into his and squeezing it tenderly. “I was worried. I- I was angry.”

“Angry?”

Raminus looked down at the small hand in his and seemed to grow embarrassed. “I wish I knew why you are drawn to such danger, and why you are so willing to throw yourself into it. It’s not my place and it’s selfish to think like this, but I get so scared at the thought of you hurting yourself, even if it is to save others, that sometimes I just wish you wouldn’t. Even if you’re saving the very guild we serve while you're at it. How awful of me is it to say such a thing?"

"I- I don't think it's an awful thing to say," Nim muttered, and she too looked a bit embarrassed. Raminus cared for her, _truly _cared for her and in ways she had never experienced from any other in her life. Danger was a foreign concept in his life up until this catastrophe in the Mages Guild. He never had to grow accustomed to watching his friends and colleagues risk their lives on assignments, not like Nim had in the Thieves Guild and in her life before that down in Leyawiin. And now was it so bad that she _liked_ feeling cared for, that she liked feeling as though someone would miss her when she was gone?

"I don't know. I--" Raminus cut himself off with a shake of his head. "You saved so many lives, and I’m angry because you might have gotten yourself killed, and there was nothing I could have done to keep you from it. You didn’t even tell me where you were."

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"But you shouldn't be." He squeezed her hand and then offered her a fragile smile, so fragile it looked like a gust of wind would shatter it. "I can’t say I was surprised to read that it was you who closed the gate. I don't know many who would have acted as you did.”

"I'm sure you would have done the same."

"Would I?" He was silent for a moment, his eyes directed at the lines crisscrossing her palm. "It was a very brave thing to do."

"Reckless too."

Nim pulled away to wrap her arms around his neck, and leaned into his chest with a deep sigh. He welcomed her, stroking up and down the length of her back as he held her.

“And it was awful," she said. "These past days have been so dark and so long.”

“These have been a hard few years for Cyrodiil.” 

“I don’t think it will be the last gate either.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I just do.”

Raminus pulled back slightly and stared with concerned eyes. Nim wilted beneath them.

“Is this another of those things you can’t tell me?”

She nodded and felt as though her stomach was rotting inside her. “I can tell you how they work though.”

Raminus stared with bated breath. He looked hesitant, thoughtful for a moment while he studied her, and after a pause, he relented.

“Okay,” he said, voice soft, patient, and terribly calm. He stared at the guilt-ridden woman in his arms and cradled her cheek in his palm, petting the rosy bloom that grew under his fingertips.

Nim leaned in, and then she kissed him, and though he was halfway through murmuring out another word, the sound died on his tongue as he welcomed her against his lips. His mouth was warm, shamelessly warm. The kiss gentle, but full. 

“Okay,” he repeated, just a whisper shared between them. “Tell me how it works.” 

* * *

Lorise entered her bedroom feeling numb, feeling weightless. She found nothing inside of the Sanctuary, nothing but scattered ashes and the brown stains of spilled blood where bodies once lie.

It couldn’t be. Vicente dead?

How could it be?

She dropped her pack to the floor and gasped. On her bed sat a single piece of parchment. She rushed to it, picked it up and held it to the faint orange light of the single candle on her end table. Her fingers trembled, nearly burning the edges against the flame, and as she read it, she wept.

_Dear Lorise,_

_There are not enough hours in the day, nor enough days left in my life to write all that I wish to say to you, so instead I will be brief._

_Many centuries ago, I once walked Nirn as a mortal man, yet never have I felt as alive as I did in the most mundane moments spent with you. _

_You and I, Lorise, on a misted Sundas morning. Your breath hot against my bare, bloodless shoulder. You trapped in your dreamscape and my hand slipping through silken strands as though it were the very threads of nightfall itself. And to lay beside you as you woke with those eyes peering up at me like pools of cold azure rain-- I don’t expect you to understand, but know that when I first loved you, I felt myself reborn._

_I thought I knew exactly what I wanted from life. I thought I could give you all you wanted too, but then I saw you with Nimileth, and I knew that I was robbing you of the same thing your father had destroyed for you and your sister. _

_A real life. Not this Dark Brotherhood lie. A family that doesn’t turn on one another when the Black Hand demands it. This is not the place to grow real love, and I realized it too late, my dear. I was blinded by my hope that we might reclaim the family you had lost together. I know now that for you to have that chance, it cannot be with me, Lorise, not the way things are._

_And when you told me of your plan for the purification, I knew then my fate was sealed. The Black Hand would know if I escaped. After everything that has happened in Cheydinhal, they would be vigilant. They would be expecting it. They would have no qualms about purging you too if they suspected you acted as an accomplice, and so this was the only way it could be. If I had warned you or Nim, you would have done something rash to preserve me, but my darling, I go willingly. _

_Please, do not hate me for what I have done. I’m sure my soul would wither to dust and disappear from Mundus if you ever did. I know you are angry at me, but if you ever believed I wouldn’t give everything I am to protect you then I wonder, did you truly know me at all? I’m not leaving, not really (Gods, what a trite and colorless thing to say). You are all of me held in one breath, and I am a dead man, never meant to inhale something as divine as you. What a blessing you have been to such a lonely creature like me. Please forgive me, and believe that when I say I love you, Lorise, I mean I am you in the very scarlet of your blood. _

_You have remade this ruined life of mine. I wait for you now in the Void._

_Yours, in darkness eternal,_

_Vicente Valtieri_


	39. Through Shadows, Through Blinding Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg so many things happening in this chapter forgive me. Angsty moments, tender moments, Bellamont moments. I hope there is something for everyone lol.

**Chapter 39: Through Shadows, Through Blinding Light**

“Don’t turn around. I’m going to get up in a minute and walk out of here. The guy in the corner will follow me. You follow him.”

Nim stared out the window of Luther Broad’s Boarding House and passed her tankard of water between her palms. She lowered her voice to faint whisper, and then spoke. “You don’t think it looks a little suspicious that we’re here conspiring with one another, only for you to get up and leave?”

Baurus pretended to sip his drink, looking thoughtful, and Nim continued to stare forward. Frost spread across the far window pane as soft snow dusted the sill and fell to the ground, out of sight. It was Morning Star and winter was ready to settle upon the Imperial City.

“Fair,” the Redguard said, whispering into his tankard. “Act like you’re upset at me, and then I’ll leave.”

Before Baurus had any time to prepare, Nim stood from her chair with an earsplitting screech that pierced the mild chatter of the tavern.

“You dirty fetcher!” She cried out and splashed her half full glass of water against the side of the Redguard’s head. His eyes flew open, round and startled in a mask of shock that was entirely genuine. Nim forced her face into pinched anger, struggling to keep from stammering out an apology that would compromise her rouse. “You think you can proposition me like a ha’penny whore? What, you’re not even going to buy me a drink first?”

Baurus stood to his feet muttering a curse under his breath and looking somehow more offended than Nim. Shaking the droplets from his shirt, he made for the back of the tavern and toward the washroom downstairs.

“Go on!” Nim shouted after him and raised her small fist threateningly in the air. “Get out of here you… you rascal! You sload!”

The tavern-goers were silent for a moment as they watched her stand there, fuming under exaggerated ire, but eventually, and painfully slowly Nim would add, they returned to their meals and idle chit-chat. Nim eyed the back of the Blades head with a facsimile of disdain and returned to her seat to watch until he disappeared from view. Just as Baurus had anticipated, the Breton man in the corner folded up his newspaper, stood, and followed him through the basement door.

As soon as they disappeared around the corner, Nim followed in step, throwing an invisibility spell around herself as she proceeded down the dimly lit stairs. She could hear the footsteps of the Breton man as he travelled away from her, toward Baurus, and picked up her pace until she was an arm’s length away.

The man paused, lifting his hand into the air, and Nim felt her heart freeze.

“_For Lord Dagon! "_

As soon as the words left his lips, the man's hand was engulfed in a mist of yellow light. Nim recognized it as the aura accompanying a conjuration spell and drew her dagger. He was calling upon his daedric armor and, without sparing a moment of thought, she plunged her blade into the base of his skull.

She watched as the man dropped to the ground in front of her, and when she looked up, she found Baurus standing with a hand on his hip, blade dangling beside him, looking entirely displeased by the scene he had just witnessed.

“I was hoping to question him,” he said, not bothering to hide the disappointment in his voice.

“Sorry. I... got a little too into it.”

Baurus shook his head, sending droplets of water across the floor, and then returned his own blade to its sheath. “Yes, I think I know that.”

“Sorry again. I can dry you off if it makes you feel any better.”

Baurus shrugged, and Nim stepped over the dead body to approach him. She held her hands a few inches from his chest and let a pulse of heat envelope him. Finding his shirt now dry, Baurus nodded in approval. “Nifty trick.”

“One of many,” she replied and gave a little shrug. They returned their attention to the body on the ground. The dead man lay face down, blood spilling from the wound at his neck to form a pool below his head. Nim’s dagger was still embedded into his skull.

Baurus crouched down beside him. “I’m surprised to see you again,” he said with a grunt as he withdrew the dagger and offered it back to Nim. “You look different than how I remembered. Less soot and more sustenance.”

“The years have been kind to me,” she said weakly and wiped the blood from her dagger onto her pant leg.

After rolling the body onto its back, Baurus picked up a blood-drenched messenger bag and began to sift through it. He withdrew a large tome, embossed lettering on the front that read _Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes, vol 1_.

“Looks like Daedric,” Baurus said as he flipped through it.

Nim peered over his shoulder and gave a small nod. “It is,” she said and pointed at the subtitle on the cover page. “It says _Dagon_ right here.”

“You can read Daedric?”

Nim tensed but looked down at the Redguard with a cool and collected smile. “Another nifty trick,” she said nonchalantly.

“Not at all suspicious.”

“You met me in a prison, Baurus. If I’m anything less than ripe with suspicions, you must be selling me short.”

Baurus chuckled grimly. “Fair.” He offered the book up to Nim. “I don’t suppose you make any sense of the writing, do you?”

After a quick pass over the first few pages, she shook her head. “No. Reads like pompous rubbish if you ask me, but that’s what cultists are drawn to. Loquacious, gaudy nonsense.”

Baurus quirked a brow. “You know a lot about cultists then do you?”

Nim responded with a blank stare.

“Well, we better get that book to the Arcane University,” he said, standing to his feet with a subtlt _oomph_. “There's a scholar there who is an expert on Daedric cults. She might know where we can get the remaining volumes.”

“Oh, Tar-meena. She’s the archivist at the University’s library,” Nim said, shutting the book and shoving it into her pack. Baurus nodded curiously. “I’m needed over there later this week anyway. I’ll bring it to her then.”

“You’re needed over there?”

“Yes. I have business with Arch-mage Traven. We’re to meet in a few days time, so I’ll be staying in the city for a while. Hopefully we can track down the complete series of these books before I need to leave.”

Baurus passed his eyes over the small elf in front of him. What business would the Arch-mage have with a convicted criminal? He supposed that Nim, being one of the few individuals in Cyrodiil who had first-hand experience closing Oblivion gates, possessed a rare, esoteric knowledge that would appeal to the eager scholars within the Mages Guild.

“Right,” he said. “I imagine your experience in Kvatch makes you a valuable source of information to the mages at the University.”

A part of Baurus still couldn’t believe that _this _was the Hero of Kvatch. Sure, she wasn’t as gaunt and wiry as the woman he had met in prison, but not in a million years would he have imagined that such a sinewy, unsuspecting thing could make it through the planes of Oblivion unscathed.

“Yes, I suppose it does,” Nim sighed. “I’ll tell you, it certainly doesn’t decrease my work load as a member of the Council.”

Baurus nearly staggered in shock. “Wait. Did you just say you’re on the Council?”

“What can I say?” she shrugged. “I’ve turned myself around in these past two years.”

Perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps she was exactly the type of person he should imagine as the savior of Kvatch. When priests were next in line for the throne and portals to Oblivion were swallowing cities whole, anything seemed possible.

“Huh,” Baurus said, scratching his chin. “It certainly sounds like a more productive two years than I’ve had.”

* * *

A few evenings later, Nim waited quietly on her stool in the Council’s meeting chambers, her eyes fixed on the rune etched into the center of the circular table. In her lap sat the complete set of four volumes that made up the _Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes. _She drummed her fingers across the books neurotically. Earlier that day, she and Baurus had escaped the Imperial sewers with the fourth and final volume of the series and proceeded to spend the rest of their time together deciphering the secret message hidden within the texts. They had uncovered a map that pointed to a cave beside Lake Arrius in the northern reaches of the Heartlands, the location of the Mythic Dawn’s shrine and hopefully the Amulet of Kings.

She’d need to head there soon, she thought while her fingers tapped away along the book’s cover, after she came back from wherever the Council needed her to go. She’d head to the Lake Arrius Caverns and then back to Martin. She’d make sure he was settled well up there, all alone in a palace full of Blades, and then she’d return to Anvil.

_And then? _She’d look for her next set of orders, orders to return to Lucien. Her stomach turned.

Across the room, the teleporter whirred. Raminus, Tarmeena, and Arch-mage Traven filed into the chamber and settled into their own places around her. Despite being only one member short of the Council’s full five occupied seats, the table before her felt much too large for their assembly, the room far too empty.

Nim heaved her stack of books onto the table and slid them across the surface toward Tarmeena. “Here,” she said, “I’ve found everything I needed from them, so I’m donating them to the archives now. They’ll be of more use there than in anyone else’s hands.”

Tarmeena gave a grateful nod and eagerly accepted the offering. “Oh, and what was it that you found?” She asked absently as she leafed through the book on the top of the stack. “Never mind. I shouldn’t go sticking my nose in official business any further. I’ve worked with Baurus before, don’t worry. I understand how it is.”

Tarmeena pushed the books aside and out of her way, but not before the Arch-mage seated beside her glimpsed the title. _Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes,_ it read. Traven looked toward Nim with the barest hint of curiosity in his small smile. Raminus’ expression was considerably more apprehensive.

With the books out of her possession, Nim swept the loose hair from her eyes and returned her attention to the mages seated around the table, ready to discuss the next stage of their fight against Mannimarco, Instead, the Archmage turned to her, and the room grew still.

“Perhaps we should address the silt-strider in the room, hmm?” Traven suggested at last as he brought his chair closer to the edge of the table and clasped his hands atop its surface. “I understand your research interests have deviated from illusion, Nimileth.”

Nim shrugged. “Just a little Daedric magic, that’s all.”

Following the recent article in _The Black Horse Courier_, most the University was abuzz with rumors of Nim’s heroism at Kvatch and she absolutely loathed it. She cringed every time she heard her name whispered through a group of gossiping first-year students, but at least no one dared approach to ask her about it. She wasn’t sure when she had gained a reputation for being standoffish and unapproachable, but she didn’t mind as long as it kept the needless praise away from her.

Hannibal Traven continued. “I trust you’re being cautious while exploring these anomalous gates?”

There was an unfamiliar concern in his voice, and Nim tried her best to pretend she did not hear it. “To the best of my abilities,” she said dismissively. “Daedric cults can’t be all that different from Necromancer cults, and I’d say I have some experience handling the latter.”

“It’s not too unreasonable a comparison,” Tarmeena said in agreement, “though not all daedra worshippers are as destructive as this cult in question. That is if those who call themselves the Mythic Dawn are indeed the group behind the massacre at Kvatch.”

Nim scratched at the back of her neck. She trusted what was left of the Council, but she wasn’t sure how much was wise to share. “It’s looking more and more likely the further I dig,” she said.

“Well, if the Blades say so, then who am I to doubt them?”

“The Blades?” Raminus’ eyes went wide, and he turned swiftly in Nim’s direction. “You’re working for the Blades?”

“Well… no.” Nim faltered a bit. “I’m working _with _the Blades.”

“Oh, bollocks,” Tarmeena cursed under her breath, looking a touch embarrassed. “Were you trying to keep that a secret?”

Nim gave a resigned half-shrug and sighed.

“I’m sorry, Nimileth. I didn’t realize if you were. Ever since the Emperor’s assassination, I’ve grown quite comfortable working with the Blades. The Council already knows of our connection.”

“It’s fine, Tarmeena. I just thought the less who know the better.”

“Since when have you been working with the Blades?” Raminus asked, his focus never having strayed from the Bosmer at his side.

“A while,” she said. Raminus’ stare sharpened at the opaqueness of her answer, and a lump of guilt rose in her throat. “Just a few days before Kvatch,” she quickly added.

Raminus’ frown deepened considerably. “They sent you there?”

She nodded.

“And what is the end goal?” Traven asked calmly. “How do you intend on stopping them?”

“I’m only one woman. I don’t intend on stopping them,” Nim said. “I’m just trying to clarify a few things on the Blade’s behalf.”

“How will you do that?”

“Well, first I’ve got to find the heart of their cult, just like what we’re doing now with the Necromancers. Tarmeena suggested that this series of books would contain enough clues to lead me to them, and she was correct. I’ll start there.”

“Lead you to them?” Raminus repeated with growing distress. “You’re not going after them yourself, are you? Nimileth, they brought an entire city to ruin. You can’t hope to infiltrate them on your own.” 

His anxiety was starting to become contagious, and Nim returned to staring at the center of the table. “We needn’t discuss it further. Let us return to the matter at hand.”

Traven held up a finger. “One more thing,” he said. “Raminus mentioned your discovery of a Sigil stone within the gate at Kvatch. If you happen to have it with you, may I see it?”

Eyeing Traven tentatively for a prolonged moment, Nim plucked her bag off the floor and pulled forth the dun sphere. She set it on the table and rolled it toward the Arch-mage, who picked it up and inspected it with intensely narrowed eyes.

“Have you come across anything like it in you research, Tarmeena?” He asked, eyes still on the stone.

Tarmeena leaned in closer and then shook her head. “No, nothing of the sort. But you say it kept the gate open? I bet a conjurer would be better suited to investigate how this stone can maintain a link between Oblivion and the mortal plane. I’ll send out some letters to a few people I know.” She rapped her talon against the sphere and pinched her brow ridges together with a worried look. “Are we certain it’s inert?”

Nim could only shrug in response.

“We should keep it here then,” the Argonian suggested, “safe and away from prying eyes.”

“I’ve promised a colleague that he could come inspect it,” Nim said. “Please grant him access to it when he comes. His name is Fathis Aren. I think he could be a great help in figuring out how this device operates.”

“Fathis Aren?” Traven repeated the name and smacked his lips, as though testing wine. “I’m familiar with that name. He’s the Court Wizard in Bravil, correct? A Telvanni mage?”

“And he’s a conjurer,” Nim added. “I’ve taken lessons from him before.”

“Oh, that would be perfect then,” Tarmeena grinned, relieved. “Tell him that we should speak when he comes by.”

“Certainly. He’s quite knowledgeable. Don’t let his flippant ways deceive you,” Nim said enthusiastically. “We’ve spoken at some length about an event like this before. He had proposed a similar mechanism for opening portals to Oblivion.”

Traven quirked a brow curiously and gestured for her to continue. Nim hesitated before she did so, feeling slightly embarrassed by how easily the words slipped out.

“Well, Tamriel is especially vulnerable now that the liminal barrier is weakened by the throne’s vacancy. All a Daedric prince needs is the will to open a portal, and they could do so with minimal resistance. Mehrunes Dagon might want an invading horde to pour out of his gates, but not all Daedra would choose such an aggressive approach. If they wish to be discreet, a portal could open up anywhere and no one would even be aware of its existence.” Nim paused and found the room staring at her with varying levels of interest and suspicion. “In theory, I mean.”

“That’s rather specific postulation,” Traven noted. “Fathis mentioned all of that to you during conjuration lessons?”

“It was only harmless speculation. There’s no need to be suspicious of him. He’s saved my hide six ways from Sundas. I trust him.”

“I didn’t realize the two of you were so well acquainted,” Raminus said, fidgeting in his seat and trying hard to not look too invested in the question. He focused instead on the dun Sigil Stone. Nim gave him a lopsided smile.

“He’s… been a good friend.”

“Very well,” Traven said. He replaced the sphere on the table and leaned back in his seat, signaling that he had no more to say on the topic. “All insight has value in these dire times. Raminus, please allow Fathis to inspect this Sigil Stone when he visits.”

Raminus took a second to recollect his thoughts and continued on. “Of course. When he comes to the University, I’ll make sure he has access to it. Perhaps now we can return to discussion of the recent Necromancer activity.”

With a nod, Traven began to explain the latest news from their informants in southern Cyrodiil.

“Word has been sent that the Necromancers have been quite busy creating black soul gems for their leader. In particular, a unique Black Soul Gem has been crafted in the ruins of Silorn. I have already sent a contingent of battlemages to the site with the orders to confiscate this gem and bring it here to the University before it can be delivered to the King of Worms and used against us.”

“Shouldn’t it be destroyed?” Tarmeena asked. “Why bother bringing it back here?”

“No, we will have need of it.”

Nim blinked rapidly in disbelief. “We will?”

“I believe it may be instrumental in saving our guild.”

She looked at the Arch-mage dubiously, a brow raised and crooked. “How?”

“I will explain it all once the soul gem has been returned,” Traven said, shaking his head. “Until then, discussion will be useless. I have a plan. I ask that you all hold faith in it.”

His meager reassurance only set her on edge. She wished he would just come out with it now but swallowed her misgivings instead of probing further. What could he possibly be planning with such a dark resource?

“Shall I head to Silorn then?” She asked.

“No. As I said, I’ve already sent battlemages to neutralize the threat. What we need to think about now is the future of the guild and the restoration of the Council. Now we face a threat not only from the Necromancers but also from this Mythic Dawn. I need the three of you to compile a list of possible candidates for another seat on the Council. Please make sure Carahil is included on this list,” he said, directing the comment to Raminus.

Nim shifted in her seat, frowning. “Last I spoke with Carahil, she was less than enthusiastic at the prospect of leaving Anvil. I know she was considered first for my seat.”

Traven pursed his lips and looked deep in thought for a passing moment. “I believe she can be persuaded with thorough reasoning,” he said. “The sooner we get these positions filled, the better equipped we are to face the worst of what these dark days have to offer.”

Nim scrunched her face in displeasure. “I mean no disrespect, Arch-mage, but I hardly understand what makes me qualified for this position, and I doubt I’d be a good judge of what makes someone else suitable for it. I’m much better equipped to aid the assault at Silorn, and I really think I should see to it myself.” She looked to Raminus and then to Tarmeena. “You know it's true.”

“When the soul gem is returned to us, I will have a much more important task for you, Nimileth,” Traven said. “See to your duties with the Blades if you must, but otherwise I will need you here, working to reestablish the fifth seat of the Council. It would be unwise for everyone if I were to spread you any thinner than you already are.”

Though he hadn’t said it with any note of disapproval, Nim felt a stab of guilt. Between the Mages Guild, the Blades, and Lucien’s orders, she was taking on far more burden than she could bear, and it was becoming harder and harder to keep concealed from those around her. Still, Traven had never shown any hesitancy about sending her out into the fray before. What made the threat at Silorn any different?

She huffed quietly under her breath and pondered over the Arch-mage’s words once more, deciding in the end to keep all comments to herself and maintain the quiet peace at the table. She supposed she should be grateful really. The Lake Arrius Caverns awaited her. As did her orders from Lucien. She’d need to get back to Anvil to find them before too long.

Little more was discussed that meeting, and soon Traven and Tarmeena disappeared through the teleporter to carry on with their own tasks for the evening. Nim, still lost in her thoughts, lingered in the council chambers as the room emptied. Her awareness of her surroundings dimmed, even as Raminus rose to his feet and looked down at her anxiously with hands shoved into his pockets.

“Are you… going to sit here for a while?”

Nim looked up blankly, his voice cutting into darker thoughts like a beam of silver moonlight. “Sorry?”

“Do you want me to give you space to think?”

“Oh. No.” She shook her head. “No, I’ll take my leave too.”

Raminus walked a few paces in front of her as they made their way to the teleporter, and when he didn’t hear her footsteps behind him, he turned to her expectantly.

“What are you going to do for the remainder of your day?” he asked. “I was thinking I could help you set up your new quarters. If you’d like.”

She quirked a brow at him, puzzled. “My quarters?”

“You’re a member of the Council now. You are to receive your own room here at the University. I know it’s a morbid thought, but with Irlav and Caranya gone there are two vacancies.”

“Oh, my quarters,” she repeated with less enthusiasm than it seemed Raminus was hoping to hear. “I guess I never realized that was a perk of the position.”

“Do you want me to show them to you?”

“Yes,” Nim said, distracted, and then averted her gaze as she felt guilt crept into her expression. “But maybe later?”

“Oh.” Raminus looked at Nim with a hint of disappointment, his half-grin growing crooked on his lips. “On your own time, of course. Tomorrow?”

“Am I supposed to be here tomorrow?”

His brows narrowed, expression perplexed. “Where else would you be?”

“I- I have some things to take care of up North,” she stumbled. “And then I’ll need to get back to Anvil.”

Raminus was silent for a moment as his expression darkened. He opened his mouth as though to speak and then closed it, falling silent again.

“What?” Nim asked weakly.

“Do you really need to leave so soon?” She nodded. Raminus looked away. “Do you know when you’ll be back?” Her answer to that question was less certain, a contrite shrug. Raminus sighed. 

“Nim, I know you’re busy with matters that are far above me, but did you not hear the instruction Hannibal had given us? We’re supposed to be compiling a list of new candidates for the fifth Council seat, and we really should be working on it as soon as possible. We’ll need to send out applications, evaluate the prospective candidates, and then conduct interviews. You should be here for the duration of this process.”

“But what do I know about what the Council needs in its members? I didn’t apply. I didn’t interview. I still don’t think I’m very well suited to sit on the fourth seat. Will I really be missed if I’m not present for the entire process?”

“It’s your responsibility as a serving member of the Council,” he reminded her.

Nim frowned. “I suppose I did agree to serve, didn’t I? But I’m not just making up excuses to be absent. I really do have business up north.”

“For the Blades?”

“_With_ the Blades,” she corrected him.

“Will you return as soon as you’ve finished?”

She stalled, and her voice grew weak and tinny in her throat. “I need to make a stop in Anvil first.”

“Why?”

“Why? That’s where my home is,” she said, completely aware of how unconvincing she sounded despite the words being true.

“But Is there something you’re working on in Anvil that requires your attention more than your position here? Can you tell me that at least?”

“I-I have pets there,” she stammered. “I can’t ask Thaurron to watch them forever. He has an imp of his own to manage. And I have plants there! They’ll die without me. I can’t repot them again, not before I get a chance to harvest them.”

“Plants?” Raminus asked, tone displeased. “Truly Nim?”

“I’m an alchemist. You know that. They’re essential to my livelihood. I need to keep a steady supply of ingredients to restock my potions and—"

“Nimileth, do not take me for a fool.” His voice sounded more tired now than irked, and he stared down at her, eyes pleading. “Is it your work with the Blades? Are they sending you to Anvil?”

“There’s just a lot going on right now on top of my mundane responsibilities, and I have to go back to Anvil to see to them. The alchemy business is always slower in the winter when the growing season ends. Ingredients are fewer and farther between.”

Nim blinked. Should she have said it was the Blades sending her there, use his assumptions to her advantage? It would be convenient to have an excuse for all her travels across Cyrodiil that did not include murder for hire.

Raminus stood there wringing his hands. “Can’t I help you in some way? If you would only tell me--”

“No, Raminus,” she said, cutting him off and feeling as through her body was sinking into the pit of her stomach. “I am _drowning_ in work right now. I just- I need to brew some potions, okay?”

“Is it money? Is it related to the people who tried to hurt Lorise? Do you have to pay them?”

"It's—"

Nim thought about what truly was sending her to Anvil, wondered what lied in wait for her when she arrived home. The thought of entering her manor alone consumed her with cold, swallowing fear. What if Lucien was there, waiting for her in the shadowed corners of her large, empty house? He said he wouldn’t. Could she trust him?

She shuddered and in her mind, she saw him seeping in through her bedroom window like smoke spreading across the tile, climbing across her covers, staining it with that acrid, bitter scent that she would never rid the fabric of again. She imagined the fighting, the screaming, the blood spilling from her lips and Lucien sipping at it like a moth to the night-bloom of primrose.

The resignation as she withered to his will. She imagined the smoke clawing down her lungs, flooding her with smoldering ash and insufferable, suffocating warmth. And when the detritus fell, after the bruises bloomed across her face, he’d hold her, kiss her. He’d _love _her, and she'd lay with him as his embrace constricted around her like a veil of pine needles, probing and prickling across her skin.

“No, it’s not that,” she whispered out, voice barely audible even in the silence of the room.

"It is, isn't it?" 

She did not respond.

“Nimileth?”

Her eyes were distant, lost and extinguished as he called to her. Raminus tried again “Nim, am I truly asking so much?”

She was silent, irises eclipsed by her pupils, gone to memories she swore she'd buried. To Lucien's hands constricting around her throat and he voice lost as he squeezed it from her.

Exasperated, Raminus raised a hand to stroke back his hair, and Nim flinched at the sudden movement, her hands flying up to cover her face as though shielding an impending blow. Raminus startled at the sight, nearly staggering backward as he watched her shrink away like a frightened, abused animal waiting for a kick to the ribs.

Gods, why had she done that? Nim grimaced behind her arms. She knew Raminus would never strike her, but the reaction was so visceral, had become so instinctive following all her time spent in more volatile company. Slowly, she lowered her arms away from her face and chanced a glance up at him. He met her with an equally mortified expression, eyes wide with alarm and expression disturbed.

Nim clutched her shoulders and turned away, felt her face flush hot as shame flooded through her. He would know something was dreadfully wrong now, and there would be no convincing him otherwise. After seeing her cower like this, he would know.

Raminus stepped forward slowly, a measured caution in his movement as he removed Nim’s hands from her shoulders to hold them in his own. “What is happening to you?” He whispered. “Have you been living your whole life like this?”

“Like what?”

A pause. A cold, terrible pause.

“In shadows.”

Nim winced, a flicker of pain in her features. “Don’t say that.” 

“I won’t lie. It is how I feel.” He released a long sigh and then stared intently into her eyes. “I don’t like this.”

Nim shifted under his hands. His stare suddenly felt like fire searing across her skin, and she dropped her gaze to her feet. “Are we fighting?” she asked, her voice so frail it sickened her.

“No.” Another sigh. “No, I just want to talk.”

But what could she say? What could she tell him that would assuage his worries when she could not even calm her own? If she told him the truth, why she really needed to go to Anvil, what orders she would have to fulfill, she was certain he’d choose never to see her again.

And so Nim remained silent, and Raminus drew a step closer, clutching her shoulders with a tender desperation.

“Don’t go back to Anvil,” he said. “Stay. We’re on the cusp of catching Mannimarco. We’re so close. Just stay here where you’ll be safe.” 

“Raminus, I live there.”

“I’m not asking you to uproot your life for my own peace of mind. The Council needs you whether you believe it or not. You can’t be so far away at a time like this. Remember what Traven said? You’re spread thin these days.”

“I can work around it.”

Raminus frowned, a crease furrowing along his forehead as he lowered his arms back to his side. “Everything changed when you left the University. You know it’s true.”

Nim glanced up to meet his eyes. It was true, and it stung. Stung worse because he didn’t know half of what had changed, mot half of the vile things she carried out in those shadowy places where she dwelt while away from him.

“It wasn’t Anvil that changed me,” she said, not daring to break away from his stare even though she so wished she could, “and even if I don’t go back there, I still have places to be. I have to go eventually, no matter what you say.”

“I know, and I’m not trying to cage you. Please don’t misunderstand.”

“If you knew how I lived--” she paused, restarted her sentence. “If you saw what my life was like in Anvil you would know that I’m fine.”

“Then let me come to Anvil with you. I can help you bring your plants here. I’ll help you bring your cats.”

Nim startled at the suggestion, eyes blinking rapidly.

“That’s why you can’t stay here, isn’t it?” he continued. “Because you have too many things to care for in Anvil, isn’t that what you said?”

“Yes.” A murmur as Nim swallowed down another lump of guilt. Should she have lied? What difference would one more lie make on top of the mess she had built?

“So if I help you move them into your new quarters, then you can stay, if only temporarily? Then you won’t need to travel half-way across the province in between visits to the University.”

His voice sounded hopeful, so innocent and pure. And his eyes, soft and undemanding like summer moss growing freely at the edge of a brook. Nim wished she could drown herself in them.

Why was he so forgiving? Why did he care? She had done nothing to deserve such kindness and the recognition of it left her wanting to die of shame.

“Are you sure you have the time?” she asked. “Won’t you be missed if you’re gone for a day or two?”

“If it means you’ll be present for the election of the next Council member, I think Hannibal and Tarmeena will understand. Besides, the Arch-mage said we should talk to Carahil. We can do so while we’re down there.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Raminus repeated, looking a bit guilty too. He was silent for a moment, then cleared his throat. “Am I pressuring you into doing this, Nimileth? You can say no.”

Nim shook her head. “I had hoped you would visit me in Anvil one day,” she confessed with a weak chuckle and a small, pitiful smile. “I never thought it would be under circumstances such as these.”

Raminus drew a deep breath, and exhaled softly. He laced his fingers in hers. “So had I,” he said, guiding her toward the teleporter as they took their leave of the Council chamber.

* * *

Mathieu Bellamont was celebrating the end of a very disagreeable week. After his Sanctuary in Kvatch had burned down, he didn’t think his life could get much worse but lo and behold, here he was drinking alone at an objectionably busy tavern and moping into his tankard of ale like a beaten dog. He had hoped that as a Speaker he’d never again be forced to move back into his basement apartment at the Anvil lighthouse, but until he and the Black Hand met to discuss plans for establishing a new Sanctuary, he was left with few alternatives. The lighthouse basement was hardly a suitable place for a man of his age, much less so for his precious mother, and though he liked Anvil and its mild climate well enough, the sailors that occupied the city’s port he could do without.

And do without them he did, which was why on this evening he found himself in the quietest corner of the Count’s Arms instead of the Flowing Bowl despite the latter being much closer to his residence. Too many bloody pirates there for his taste, he thought with disdain. What did a man have to do get rid of them? He’d slaughtered the entire crew of the Serpent’s Wake on his second day back in town, and still the dock _teemed_ with pirate ships and their crew members.

Finishing off his ale, Mathieu rose from his table and weaved through the tavern crowd as he made his way toward the bar. He knew he’d been spending far too much time here, drinking away his days and sulking about like a dreary, grey fog, but what was a man of his station to do?

Though there was no love lost between him and his nascent Sanctuary, he mourned its absence, bemoaned the hours spent toiling over contracts just to climb one rung higher in the Dark Brotherhood’s hierarchy. Years and years worth of spilled blood to reach this position. Years and years worth of swallowed lies to gain the respect of the Black Hand. Mathieu ordered a brandy, something a touch stronger to rid the foul taste of failure from his tongue.

The Black Hand would gather again soon to discuss the future of his Sanctuary, and Mathieu felt only dread for the anticipated meeting. He knew full well that all they would have to offer him was pity, and Gods how he loathed their charade of familial comfort and commiseration. What did any of the Black Hand’s fingers know of sympathy? 

But still, he’d be able to use these recent events to his advantage, he thought as he sipped his brandy. He’d return to his own charade, and he’d reconstruct his Sanctuary from the very ashes of Kvatch if he needed too. _Poor little Bellamont_, they’d coo at him. _Look at how hard he’s working to rebuild._ They’d laud him for his resilience, the fools, and how then could they ever suspect such a loyal servant of Sithis capable of treachery?

Turning on his heels, Mathieu cursed to find a new couple occupying his seats. He had half a mind to storm over there and shoo them away. Half a mind to call it a night, head back to the lighthouse and look for a drunk pirate to push off the harbor.

His eyes lingered on the couple for a searing moment as he contemplated his options, and then he felt his stomach flutter as recognition took hold. Who was that women in the green robes? It looked almost like Nimileth, and if it was indeed her, he’d never seen her dressed so plainly. A man sat beside her. A man unfamiliar to him but evidently not to her as he reached across the table to squeeze her hand with a well-acquainted tenderness.

Mathieu felt the hair at the back of his neck prickle, a sinister smile spread on his lips. It seemed his evening was about to turn around.

Taking a seat at the far end of the bar where he sat obscured by the tavern’s crowd, Mathieu watched as Nim and the man fell into idle chatter over dinner. This wasn’t like the last time he had seen her here, when she was all dolled up and looking half bored to death by some handsy stranger hoping to take her home. The pair at the table looked comfortable, cozy, and truly content to share nothing but each other’s company. Mathieu suspected they knew each other quite well. Even from across the room, he could see the way Nim looked at him, her gaze beckoning and boundless. He felt a rock settle in his stomach, remembered a time when he knew a woman who looked at him the same way.

Not very long after they finished their meal, the pair was joined by an Altmer woman who offered them a formal greeting. Nim and the man distanced themselves as the conversation took on a business-like quality.

_How does she do it? _Mathieu found himself wondering. How could something so destructive look so innocent, so ordinary from a distance? He supposed that’s what made her so deadly, and so appealing to a man as depraved as Lucien.

Half an hour gone, and two more brandy’s deep, he watched as Nim rose from her seat. She picked her way across the bustling tavern floor until she reached the bar. Mathieu followed, and when he was at last within a grasping distance, he reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder.

“I didn’t think I’d be running into you for a long, long time,” he purred, calm and cool like an early spring breeze.

Nim gasped and whipped her head around so quickly she nearly toppled over. The Breton reached out, wrapping an arm around her waist to hold her steady.

“Bloody hell, Mathieu,” she rasped out, catching her breath, “you mustn’t sneak up on me like that. I’ll die of fright.”

He held her and released a soft round of titters as she sighed, the blush of embarrassment draining from her face.

“You’re just as jumpy as I remember,” he teased, giving her a fond, closed lipped smile that crinkled his eyes until they were but two half-moons directed down at her. “That’s good. Lucien almost had us convinced you were dead by the way he was acting. I’ve never seen him so maudlin before.”

“Well, clearly I’m alive,” she said, frowning.

“After the stunt you pulled, some would wonder why.”

Nim looked at him sideways and pulled against his grasp, but his hand remained firmly ensconced on the crest of her hip. “You’re not going to berate me for it too, are you?”

“I should do worse,” Mathieu said. He stared at her, cold and unblinking with eyes like dark river stone. Nim worried her bottom lip, her brows pinched, and Mathieu released a single, stifled chuckle as momentary panic flickered across her expression. He loosened his grip on her, brought his brandy to his lips and took a small drink. “I can’t say I fault you for the attempt. It took more balls than I possess to do what you did.”

“Did he tell you what happened?”

“Lucien?” Mathieu shook his head and scoffed. “No, but word gets around. This will be… a dark mark on his record. What’s important is that the order has been fulfilled. It’s best for everyone if we leave it in the past.”

“I’d drink to that,” Nim said with an exhausted sigh. She looked toward Mathieu’s brandy longingly.

“I think it was an agreeable decision at the end of the day. It would have been a shame to lose someone as talented as yourself or Ms. Audenius.”

“Well, I’m so happy that it all worked out then,” Nim said with a note of bitterness. “I’ve no intention to leave again. You needn’t worry.”

Mathieu gave her a knowing look. “Oh, of course. You wouldn’t dream of it. The temptation must never cross your mind. After the things you’ve done, where else could you go?” He took a strand of loose hair that spilled from her ponytail and tucked it gently behind her ear, felt her freeze against his fingertips and smiled. “After the things we do, who else would have us?”

“Mathieu, I- I had no choice. You know that. They were orders from above.”

“Still in denial?” The Breton shook his head. “Some things never change, do they?”

“I really tried to find another way,” Nim said, sounding desperate. “I thought we could escape. I was willing to risk my life if it meant a chance for Vicente and Lorise to run away. It was us or them.”

“Them? Is that what you call the people who loved you?”

“I loved them too, Mathieu. Why do you insist on tormenting me? What pleasure are you getting from this? Tell me you wouldn’t do what I did if it were Maria on the—”

Don’t,” he seethed, his smile plummeting to ash with alarming speed. A flash of fury flared behind his eyes for a passing second and no more before he cleared the pain from his voice with a long swig of his drink. “Such tragedies are better left with the dead. Forgive me for bringing it up. I must be more drunk than I feel.”

Nim nodded meekly. “I’m sorry about Kvatch, I was there. I saw everything.”

“So I heard,” Mathieu mused. “It must be a slow season for Lucien if you have time to run through mysterious infernos and save cities at your leisure.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that I saved anything,” she said and turned, attempting to wave down the publican. “Kvatch is still in ruins, and I think it will stay that way for quite some time. Probably for the best, if I’m speaking frankly. Not much there worth keeping aside from the people who lived there.”

Nodding but not quite listening, Mathieu looked over Nim’s shoulder to the table he had watched her walk away from. The man was still sitting there, engrossed in deep discussion with the older Altmer woman and sipping at a cup of wine. He was a dark-haired Imperial, well-kempt and finely dressed in the same style of Nibenese attire that Uvani often wore while travelling— elegantly embroidered silks, though Mathieu found the neutral hues this man donned to be commendably more subtle and palatable to his modest eye.

Taking a long, unapologetic glance at the man and his characteristically Imperial features, Mathieu thought he detected an air of aristocracy that he couldn’t quite explain by the expensive clothing alone. Something in his posture perhaps. Something in his aura? Mathieu squinted his eyes as he inspected him and then looked back to Nim. Even while not made up and dressed in her plain robes, she was pretty, little thing. A bit unrefined, but by no means unpleasant to look at. Still, the man at the table looked stately, almost out of place in his fine Nibenese ensemble, and Mathieu found himself wondering how a woman of Nim’s station had managed to meet him.

From beside him, the small Bosmer leaned an elbow against the counter and motioned the bartender toward her. “What are the chances that we run into each other here again? Business this way?”

Mathieu nodded.

“Will this posting be permanent? It would be nice to have a neighbor.” She gave him an easy smile. Too easy, he thought, and it made his stomach too warm.

“No, I don’t intend to stay for very long,” he said and hoped the statement would soon prove true.

“Oh? Where to next?”

He shrugged a shoulder nonchalantly. “I suppose I’ll find out soon. We’ve yet to discuss what happens now that we’ve lost Kvatch. Honestly, I’m just trying to keep my mind occupied until the next meeting.”

“Well, that’s all you really can do,” Nim said and leaned across the counter to accept her drink. “I imagine you’ll be quite busy when time comes to rebuild. There will be plenty to occupy your mind then.”

Mathieu gave a reluctant sigh of agreement and swept the hair from his brow. With Nim turned away, his line of sight to the table across the room was clear once more, and at that moment, the Imperial man looked up, his eyes scanning the bar in search of his companion. He spied Mathieu with his arm still around her, looked away and then back as though making certain he was seeing correctly. The sudden confusion and the pang of restlessness that overcame him was as legible as freshly penned Cyrodilliic. Mathieu smiled back at the man, his inky black eyes twinkling.

“You look busy yourself,” he said to Nim and gestured over to her table with a nod of his head. The man quickly turned away, averting his eyes from the two assassins at the bar.

“Yeah,” Nim said hesitantly and pulled her drink closer. “I’ve got business this way too.”

Mathieu smirked, his expression playfully doubtful. “Is that all it is?”

“Indeed.” Her reply was smooth, as though the question did not faze her in the slightest.

“You’re quite comfortable in his presence. You’ve been seeing him for a while, haven’t you?”

“And what’s that got to do with the price of Kwama eggs, hmm? Were you spying on me?”

Mathieu nodded, finding no sense in hiding the fact. “You really ought to survey your surroundings more often.”

“I do. Usually.” A lopsided grin tugged on her mouth. “I guess I was rather comfortable.”

“Does your Speaker know?”

“Does he know what?”

Mathieu cocked his head in the direction of the table, his grin deepening.

“That you’re in love with someone else.” Nim blinked rapidly in response as her body grew rigid in his arm, her expression vacant. Mathieu laughed. “You look at that man as though he were cool rain and you, a rose on the verge of desiccation. It’s as though you’ve never seen anything so precious in all your life.”

A subtle blush rose in her cheeks. “Well, that’s a bit hyperbolic,” she said dismissively, bringing her goblet to her lips. “And I didn’t know you had even a hint of a poetic streak in you.”

Mathieu smiled as he watched the coral bloom darken in her skin. “You must love him. You’re not so skilled a liar, you know.” He brushed her cheek lightly with the back of his hand, causing her to nearly sputter on her drink.

Nim fixed him with a blank stare, lips pursed as she wiped the spilled wine from them. “So have you seen Lorise since Kvatch?” She quickly deflected, squirming slightly in his grasp.

Mathieu nodded.

Nim's eyes grew wide. “How is she?" she asked, the desperation returning. "I haven’t spoken with her since… well, since after I explained what happened in Cheydinhal.”

“I can’t say she’s taking it well, but she is accustomed to death.”

“Mathieu, I- I’m worried she’ll hate me forever for it. I don't know what I would do if she did.”

“She can hardly blame you for saving her life. In time the pain will settle. It always does.” Mathieu studied the women in his arms, found her staring morosely into her drink as though longing to drown inside it. “Sometimes I think about what our lives would be like if it were you under my service instead.”

Nim looked up, a curious glint in her round eyes. “Why do you say that? You’re much better off with someone who actually knows what they’re doing.”

“I had some projects in mind. I think, given time, you would have found them to your suiting.”

“Oh, how interesting,” she said dryly. “Can you be any more vague?”

Mathieu only shrugged. “Perhaps one day you’ll see for yourself.”

“Speaking of the vague, Lucien told me to tell you something if I saw you. He said, um, damn what was it again? Uh, congratulations? No, no, he didn’t say that way.” She paused, chewing on her lip and rapping against the silver cup of her goblet with a nail. “He said that… he’s watching you and he prays the Dread Father rewards you justly. Something like that.”

Mathieu felt his heart skip at the message’s foreboding. “Did he now?”

“Maybe.” Nim waved her hand flippantly through the air and scrunched her nose. “Half of what he tells me goes in through one ear and out the next.”

“How considerate of you to pass his words along none the less.”

His voice trailed off, focus fading into the distance as he mulled over what Lucien could have meant. Mathieu realized he had acted rashly on occasion. With Blanchard. With Maria. There were moments where he had come too close to being seen, and he blamed that unholy zeal, that hunger that came over him like a fever. That white, burning hatred that blinded him to all else but the need for vengeance.

Still, he knew he'd been impulsive at times, overconfident in some of his exploits. He drank often and deeply. Sometimes he felt he needed to, fully aware that it could only lead to more mistakes. And Lucien was no fool. Hadn't he covered up his tracks? Could Lucien have his own suspicions about the true identity of the traitor? If so, what purpose did Lucien find in warning him of such misgivings?

He shook his head to clear it and found Nim staring at him uneasily. He offered her a thin, watery smile, a smile that did not quite reach his eyes.

A moment of silence passed, just long enough for a chill of tension to grow biting between them.

“Will you promise me something?” Mathieu asked softly.

“Hmm?”

“Promise me that you won’t let yourself become distracted in Lucien’s service.”

“What on Nirn do you mean by that?” she scoffed, recoiling slightly. “I really don’t understand why Speakers of all people insist on communicating with as much clarity as fresh mud.”

“Don’t act so naïve,” Mathieu spat back at her, and the jarring severity of his tone set the hair on Nim’s arms standing. He pulled her closer, but Nim quickly shrugged him off, looking him up and down with a disgruntled, pinched expression. Mathieu’s stare darkened. “You must stay vigilant. You cannot allow yourself to trust him.”

Nim's face harshened to a caustic scowl. “You think I was born yesterday? Why would you think I trust him of all people?”

“I know what the Speaker has you doing for him,” Mathieu smirked, though there was no warmth in any of the curves or wrinkles along his face. “You think you’re any different from the last Silencer he had?”

“Mathieu, that’s neither here nor there.”

“Does he make you feel less alone? Safe? Is that why you keep giving yourself to him? Is that why you let him _touch_ you?”

“You have no idea what you’re saying,” Nim snapped and pried herself out his grasp. She backed away from him, bumping into the nearby grumbling patrons as she sought to put distance between them. “You know nothing of what he’s put me through. How _dare_ you treat me like this.”

Mathieu followed after her, closing the gap between them with just a few paces. His eyes were wide now, fevered and boring like two black shadows trailing each of her movements. “How many times has he threatened your life?”

“I’m alive. As much as I wish it weren’t the case, I dare say I’m alive because of him.”

“But he has done it, hasn’t he?” He reached out to stop her, clasping her by the shoulder, and Nim relented, not wanting to make a scene. She met his gaze momentarily, and then turned away, a mix of shame and anger languishing behind her eyes. It was all Mathieu needed to see to know that his assumptions were true. “Defiance only holds its charm for so long, Nim. Do you think he’ll always be able to resist his temptations?” He nodded toward the table across the room, which now sat curiously empty. Nim looked as though she were about to vomit. “All he needs is an excuse to come undone.”

“The tenets bind us,” she said bluntly, clutching the stem of her goblet in a white-knuckled fist. “He can’t.”

“And yet his last Silencer met a death of his own making. Do you know what he did to her?”

Again, Nim jerked back and freed herself from his grasp. She turned away, brushing her hair back with a shaky hand and squeezing her eyes shut. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

A cruel, hollow laugh sprang from the depths of Mathieu’s throat. “You don’t even know, do you?”

“I don’t want to know. Please don’t—"

“Lucien devours all he touches, and he will only enjoy it more if you go down screaming and biting. Listen to me,” Mathieu entreated, his eyes frenzied as they searched hers. “I say this out of concern for you. As long as you are with him, you are not safe.”

Glancing behind her, Mathieu spied an approaching man, Nim’s companion, weaving through the flock of patrons toward where they stood beside the bar. He returned his hands to his side, took a moment to straighten his posture and quell the fire racing inside his veins. Nim seemed confused by the sudden change in his demeanor and parted her lips to respond when a hand clapped down against her shoulder, sending her jumping a good foot and a half into the air. 

“Hey,” the man said, leaning over Nim’s shoulder. He spoke in a soft, silvery voice. “Is everything okay?”

“Oh, by the Nine,” Nim gasped. She pawed at her amulet, face flushed, as she regained her composure. “Raminus, you startled me.”

The man, Raminus as she had called him, looked over to Mathieu with a scrutinizing stare. He stood tall for an Imperial, a bit on the lankier side, with a face that was rather easy on the eyes. Mathieu looked back with a defiant smile painted across his lips and stood proudly as the man inspected him.

“Hello,” Raminus said, sliding his hand down to the small of Nim’s back, his stance defensive. Mathieu nodded in greeting.

"Good Evening."

Clearing her throat, Nim swept the loose hair from her eyes and gestured toward the Breton assassin. “This is Mathieu—"

“Mathieu Leveque,” he cut in, extending his hand. “My pleasure.”

Raminus gave his hand a firm shake, his expression still wary. “Raminus Polus. My apologies. I didn’t mean to intrude on the two of you.”

“No?” Mathieu grinned wolfishly. “Your intentions seemed quite clear from where I stood.”

Raminus raised a brow, taken aback by the offhand comment. “Well, I was looking for Nimileth,” he said, and offered the man across from him a smile as though hoping to ease the tension. “Just wanted to make sure she hadn’t fallen into her cup of wine.”

“Hmm,” the Breton mused, eyeing Nim up and down for a painfully long moment, much to everyone else’s chagrin. “She is prone to doing so, isn’t she?”

Nim shot a withering glare in his direction, and only returned her face to a cordial smile when Raminus glanced down at her.

“Carahil’s going back to the guild hall,” he told her. “She’d like to exchange a few parting words with you before you leave.”

“Oh, I should catch her on her way out then,” Nim said and turned to Mathieu with glassy, pleading eyes. “Give me a second, will you? Don’t go anywhere.”

She disappeared though the crowd of tavern goers, leaving the two men alone and standing across from each other, Raminus uncomfortably still and Mathieu quite content in the silence.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Mathieu offered, pointing toward a clearing at the bar counter.

Raminus accepted, following after him hesitantly. “What are you drinking?” he asked. “I’ll have the same.”

“Sujamma,” Mathieu lied for the hell of it and nothing more.

Raminus quirked a brow, his expression bemused. He sat down on a nearby stool and nodded, gesturing in agreement for Mathieu to make the order. “It’s that kind of night, is it?”

“No,” Mathieu replied with the same sly grin and eerie stare. “I was having a brandy. I just wanted to see if you’d back down."

“Huh.”

Mathieu looked at him with a playful chiding, as though the Imperial ought to have known better. "It's a dangerous thing to accept an unknown drink."

“Order it anyway," Raminus said, eyes discriminating and voice musing. "I haven’t had Sujamma since my days as an apprentice.”

Pleasantly surprised, Mathieu did so and they settled against the counter side by side, Mathieu’s impish grin never wavering and Raminus’s suspicions only growing. When at last the two drinks finally arrived, Raminus took a long sip. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, his face twisting at the sujamma's potency. He shuddered briefly, but then let the tension in his shoulders unwind.

“How do you and Nim know each other?” He asked, attempting to control the curiosity within his voice, but Mathieu had caught it in his eyes long before he ever spoke.

“Oh, we’re old business acquaintances. We go far back.”

“You’re an alchemist too?”

“Me?” He chuckled. “No. I couldn’t tell you the difference between Motherwort and Lion’s Tail.”

“Those are the same plant actually.”

“Ah. Well see, I wouldn’t know,” Mathieu grinned. Raminus nodded skeptically. “I’m a businessman, not an alchemist. Nim brings me the finished product, and I sell them to eager buyers. Potions, poisons, anything in between.”

“Do you have work together often?”

“Not often enough, I’d argue, but that’s the trade-off one must endure while working with Nim. Quality over quantity. She’s rather difficult to keep track of.” Mathieu brought his drink to his lips, smiled over the rim of his glass so that all Raminus could see were two narrow slits. “And the two of you?”

“Mages Guild,” Raminus said. “We’re colleagues.”

Mathieu hummed, the sound low and rumbling in his throat as he savored the man’s words. “Is that really all you are?”

Caught off guard, Raminus chuckled into his tumbler, not nervous but genuine and warm. “Was I that obvious?” he asked.

“Yes, but I should let you know that it wasn’t you who gave it away.” In one swift motion, Mathieu downed his sujamma and sighed, refreshed as though he’d just drank cool, crisp spring water. “Well, I should leave you two to your evening,” he said, slapping a few ten-piece septims on the counter and readying himself to depart.

“You needn’t leave,” Raminus said and Mathieu was surprised to find it was a sincere suggestion. “I’m sure Nim would be upset if she couldn’t say goodbye.”

“Oh, Nim will understand. She’s not very good at farewells herself, if you know what I mean.”

The man’s smile faltered for a moment, falling a bit crooked upon its return, and Mathieu suspected Raminus knew well enough what he had meant.

Taking his leave from the bar, Mathieu managed to make it half-way to the door when he heard a small voice call out to him. He pressed forward anyway.

“Hey,” Nim said again. He felt a small hand grasp his wrist and looked back at the woman holding onto him. Her brows narrowed curiously. “Where are you going? Must be busier than you let on if you can’t even say goodbye.”

“You know what they say. Three’s a company and all that.”

She stood silently, lips rolled inward, and he let her hold onto him even as the surrounding customers bumped, jostled, and cursed at them in passing. The two assassins simply stared, neither blinking and the movement of breath barely detectable in their stillness.

“Mathieu, before you go, I have to ask.”

“Anything.”

“You won’t tell him will you?”

The Breton only grinned.

“That’s not an answer,” Nim said and released an exasperated sigh. “At least give me a warning. Will you tell him?”

“Tell him what,” Mathieu laughed, “that you think you have a life of your own outside of the Brotherhood?”

“I do have my own life,” she bit out with conviction.

Mathieu scoffed, his eyes growing distant and cold. “You don't. None of us do. You’re smarter than this,” he chided her, not patronizingly so but it was undeniably a scolding. “Look in the mirror, Nim. Look at the things you’ve done. You delude yourself into thinking you can ever be like the rest of these people.”

“I can live in the illusion of it. Maybe that’s all I need.”

“Lucien will do much worse than laugh in your face when he learns of this. And he _will _learn.”

“I don’t care what he does to me. I don’t care about any of it, so don’t bring him up or try to scare me with these threats again.” Venom coated the words on her lips, the razors in her glare. She huffed deeply, her body trembling as she pressed a hand to her face and closed her eyes. “Raminus is a _good _man,” she whispered, shaking her head. “He doesn’t know about what I do, and he deserves more than I can ever hope to offer him. If I’ve placed him in harm’s way by allowing you to see him and I together, then tell me now. I’d rather end things this minute than risk his life for my own pleasure.”

Mathieu scoffed again, though there was no rancor behind it. It was a sad sound, almost pitying. “You truly do love him.”

“I- I just want him to be safe.”

A pause as Nim removed her grip on him and smoothed down her robes. She looked to Mathieu expectantly. Her eyes, shimmering and bright, never strayed from his as she waited.

“You should tell him,” Mathieu said. "Your friend at the bar."

His words gave her pause, her expression shifting to surprise. “What?”

“Don’t keep those things inside you. Even love can become poison if left to ferment.”

“Answer my question, please. Is he safe?”

“Go on,” Mathieu said, waving his hand dismissively in her direction. “Live your mundane little life if that’s what you so desire.”

“It makes me happy, Mathieu,” she said, chewing her bottom lip. “Why is that such a terrible thing?”

“I never said it was.” In fact he looked at Nim with envy pooling in the base of his chest, climbing up the walls of his ribcage and squeezing around his heart like a noose.

What he wouldn’t give to feel something like that again.

* * *

“This one too?”

Nim looked at the planter of elves ears in Raminus’ hands and shook her head. “That one I can harvest now. You can put it in the kitchen. I’ll hang the sprigs on my spice rack and crush the leaves once they’re dry.”

Nodding, Raminus sauntered off down the hallway, his voice echoing off the white stone tiles as he spoke. “You really were telling the truth when you said you had a lot of plants.”

“Yes, well, why would I lie about that?” She called back to him from behind an overgrown somnalius fern.

“I- I don’t know.”

Nim’s house was larger than he had expected, but more surprising than its expansive size or even the vast collection of potted plants was the lavish furniture that adorned the interior. Ornate ceramic pottery, Elsweyrn rugs, fine oil paintings that took up half the wall space of her foyer. Raminus knew many alchemists that lived comfortably, but none that lived in luxury. For as long as he had known Nim, she never expressed any interest in the opulent, and she certainly didn’t dress as though she were well off. Perhaps these decorations were gifts from Lorise, he thought. The adornment of the manor made far more sense if it housed a Grand Champion instead of the humble, little alchemist that sat on the floor of the living room surrounded by plant clippings.

Depositing the planter on the kitchen counter, Raminus looked out of the kitchen window where morning glory draped across the pane like a curtain, winding upwards along the walls and rooting itself wherever its vines could find a footing. It was dark now with Masser new in the night sky and Secunda in gibbous shedding pale, ivory light on the cobblestone streets where shadowed shapes ambled home from a late night’s work on the dock.

Raminus watched the moonlight as it bounced off the surface of the lake that pooled beside Nim’s house, and he wondered what it might be like to stare upon this peaceful vista night after night. Wondered what it felt like to share in those moments with someone else so regularly. Wondered and feared.

His mind wandered to Mathieu, that strange, unnerving man at the bar and his smile that turned Raminus’ stomach in coils. That man knew Nim, knew her in a way Raminus suspected he did not. Was he the reason why she needed to return to Anvil? For the business he offered and perhaps… something else?

A warm body brushed against his calves, drawing his attention down to a small black cat arching its back against his leg.

“Hello,” he said and reached down to scratch behind the cat’s ears, who replied with a soft, appreciative mewl. Beside the cat was a rodent of unusual size. It sniffed at Raminus’ fingers, which were still scratching at the feline’s head, and wiggled its nose curiously before raising its hackles and darting away.

“Your rat is still wary of me,” Raminus said with a frown.

Soon Nim appeared in the doorway carrying a large, rattling tin. “Schemer’s just upset you don't have any food. Here,” she said and removed the lid from the container to hold it open for Raminus. “Feed him one of these.”

Raminus reached in, pulled out a brown biscuit that was about as hard as quartz. “How old are these?” He asked, sniffing at one and immediately regretting it.

“Don’t worry. He’s eaten far worse.”

By the time the pair of wizards had sorted through and packed away all of Nim’s plants, Secunda had reached its zenith in the night sky. The firewood burning in the hearth filled the room with the pleasant aroma of white fir and citrus. Nim sat cross-legged in front of its warmth, Schemer curled between her knees

“I think that’s about it,” she said, sighing triumphantly.

Dusting off the dirt on his hands, Raminus stared at the crates of plants lining her entryway, impressed that they had managed to whittle down a forest’s worth of vegetation into a something _almost _manageable. “I’ve yet to figure out how we’ll fit everything into the carriage,” he said.

“I figure we’ll put them on the floor, hold some, levitate the rest. I’m not bringing much else beside Bok-Xul and Schemer.”

“What about the rest of the cats?”

“They’re not very friendly,” Nim frowned regrettably. “I don’t think the mages at the University would appreciate such nasty creatures roaming the grounds. They still don’t care for me after all this time, but I can’t bring myself to turn them away when they come begging for food.”

Raminus looked down at her dirt covered features and smiled fondly. Her face seemed to brighten at the gesture.

He crossed the living room to the window facing streetward and stared into the quiet dark. “It’s late. I think we missed the last carriage of the night,” he lamented.

Nim joined him, leaning into the windowsill with a sleeping Schemer in her arms. “Close to midnight if the stars are anything to go by,” she said, then looked at him, a flicker of anticipation behind the glass of her irises. “Are you tired?”

“I’m looking forward to restful sleep. Perhaps I should head back to the inn soon, see about lodging for the night.”

Nim’s face soured with disappointment. “The inn?”

Raminus nodded, acting playfully oblivious to her vexation. “I wouldn’t dream of imposing upon you.”

“Impose? But you came all the way across Cyrodiil to help me.” She stared at him dumbfounded, one hand akimbo, the other clutching Schemer close. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Yes,” the wizard chuckled, still staring out into the stillness of the quiet winter. He had no intention of leaving her alone tonight. “Yes I am.”

Nim sighed contently, a sound like a cooing dove, and he felt the weight of her head leaning into his shoulder, looked down to find a few broken sprigs of lavender and bergamot clinging to her hair. He picked at the few broken branches to give his hands something to do.

“I didn’t bring anything to sleep in,” he said.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s… indecent,” he muttered, feeling childish as blush crept to his cheeks. Nim only shrugged.

“You can borrow one of my shirts if it really bothers you. Check my wardrobe. There’s one bound to fit you in there.”

Raminus hesitated, but then withdrew and made his way up the winding staircase that led to Nim’s chambers. He lit the wick of the wall sconce nearest him, snapping his fingers to call forth his flame, and peered around in the dim, lambent light. There weren’t many personal affections here in her bedroom save a collection of books lining the windowsill and a handful of assorted jewelry that lay inside a case half cracked open on her dresser. The spell-drinker amulet that he had given her sat on the rich, red velvet of the box, proudly polished with its inset gleaming.

In the wardrobe, he found several shirts designed for an individual twice her size, but this hardly surprised him. She’d been swimming in oversized clothes since they met, said something about men’s clothing being of better quality and much less expensive than those tailored for women. He sifted through the rack of tunics and robes in search of the longest shirt available, something to cover his undergarments should he stand before her undressed. The thought of such a situation occurring felt both too established and too surreal. It made his heart slam into his ribs.

Shrugging off his shirt and slipping into the new one, he threw a glance toward the bed. It looked inviting with its rich silks and warm wool. Mara mild above, he really was here, wasn’t he? The anxious flutter in his chest began to writhe its way up into his throat, sapping all the moisture from his mouth, and he swallowed hard.

The soft _pitter patter_ of bare feet on tile sounded from outside the bedroom door. Raminus stilled, his fingers frozen on the last unclasped button at his navel. The blood in his legs turned electric.

“Are you decent now?” Nim’s voice called from the other side. The door knob squeaked. “May I come in?”

Raminus crossed to the door and opened it to find himself staring into the dark, empty stairwell.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” the voice called again from the space contained by the doorframe. Raminus blinked into the vacant darkness, staring at the landing at the top of the steps and waiting for Nim to appear to him. He had heard her speaking, so where was she?

Suddenly, two arms wound around his neck, small hands slipping down the collar of his shirt and across the bare skin of his back. Her face was so close to his that he felt warm breaths ebb and break against his chin, the rich scent of earth and crushed bergamot enveloping him. A sigh, and then her lips met his, languorous, calm, and perfect. Raminus wished he knew where to place his hands.

“Nim?” He said, breaking away and reaching for the body pressed against him. Her shoulders felt bare under his palms, as though she had removed her robe. Before he could question her, she slid her hands down from the nape of his neck to the front of his shirt, to the buttons that held it together.

“Mhm?”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to undo your shirt.”

Raminus watched as his shirt came undone by the empty air in his arms. Warm hands spread across his chest, wrapping around him and drawing him closer.

“But I just put it on.”

“Yes, and I am taking it off.” She kissed him there, right on the clavicle, and then her mouth travelled lower, her hands too. She seemed persistent in her descent, and Raminus quivered, swallowed a small gasp and found his heart fluttering at the back of his throat where words should have been.

“Why-why can’t I see you?" He managed out.

“Because I am invisible.”

“Yes, Nim, I can tell, but why?”

“I was changing for bed in the stairwell. I was worried you might open the door to call out for me when you finished in here. If so, I didn't want to startle you.”

“And are you decent now?" he asked nervously. "I feel awfully strange being fondled by something I cannot see.”

He heard her stifle a giggle and then she let her invisibility spell fall. Raminus nearly choked on his breath.

“Godsblood, Nim,” he rasped out as all the air fled his lungs. “You’re naked.”

“My, my. What keen eyes you have, Master Wizard,” Nim teased and withdrew from his arms. She eyed him up and down with a playful, scrutinizing look. “And I can see that you’re not.”

“N- no. No, I’m not.”

“Are you going to fix that?”

Raminus stood awkwardly and tried not to stare too intently at the bare woman in front of him. He shrugged off his shirt and began to unclasp the belt of his trousers, fiddling for far longer than made sense as he tried to work the latch free. His hands had somehow become two slabs of butter between when Nim had entered the bedroom and now.

As he worked and swallowed down a series of colorful curses, Nim laid herself on the bed, watching curiously as a few brief seconds of struggle stretched into well over a minute.

Flustered, lustful, and woefully embarrassed, Raminus cursed quietly and swore that this must be the most cumbersome, defiant contraption he had ever met in his entire life. 

“Perhaps I should make myself invisible too and save you from witnessing this disaster,” he said.

“Take off your clothes, Raminus,” Nim commanded him. “Take them off now before I burn them to ashes.”

Raminus only blushed a deeper shade of red, mouth falling agape but no sound escaping him.

“Oh no, was that too much?” Nim cried out, forehead furrowed with concern. “I didn’t mean to sound so demanding. You really don’t need to undress at all if you don’t want to. Gods, I’m so presumptuous, aren’t I?” She reached down to the foot of her bed and quickly gathered up her throw blanket, cocooning herself within it to conceal her naked form. “I haven’t made you uncomfortable, have I?” She peeped out from the top of her swaddle. “I can sleep downstairs if you’d prefer.”

“No! No, please don’t,” Raminus said, sounding painfully desperate. “I would join you. I just seem to have scrib jelly for fingers.”

Nim loosened her grip on her blankets, the cocoon falling away until she lay beneath a perfectly amorphous blob of fabric. “You’ll tell me if I’m too much?” she whispered out from beneath the mass. “We don’t have to do anything if you’re intent on remaining chaste.”

Raminus recoiled. “If I’m what?”

“I just thought—"

“Nimileth, this is not my first romance. I’m not a stranger to intimacy,” he said, and felt foolish for needing to explain himself. “You do know I was married once before, don’t you?”

“Oh.” Her eyes widened to luminescent pearls. “I did not.”

“It was a short-lived affair. Well… no that’s not entirely true. We were together for quite some time actually. Childhood sweethearts.”

“Oh. I- I see.”

Why was he talking about this? Raminus felt as though his tongue had swelled in his mouth and he was no longer in control of the witless comments flailing from it.

“I mean the marriage was short,” he babbled on, kicking himself for it all the while. “Four years. It didn’t work out.”

Finally managing to remove his trousers, he slipped under the covers of the bed and refused the urge to burry himself deep, deep within them. Nim rolled over in her pile of blankets to face him. The weak candlelight across the room flickered in her eyes and left half her face shadowed, half her face glowing in deep, shimmering bronze.

“Well, yes I’d hope not,” she said bluntly. Raminus arched a brow. “I mean, given our current state of undress and where I forsee things going, I’d really hope that it didn’t work out.”

“Well, yes, we’re divorced now. Finalized and everything. It was a large, catastrophic end, and it is now very much over.”

“Oh. I see.”

Raminus felt his face grow infernally warm.

“You know what, Nim? I’d really prefer not to talk about my failed marriage while sitting naked in your bed.”

Nim crawled out from her hiding place and under the silk covers, entangling her legs with his as he drew her into his arms. She lay with her head against his chest, her hand creeping lower along his abdomen until she met the coarse hairs trailing down from his navel. Then she travelled lower, choosing to stay there for a while.

“And what would you prefer we talk about?” She finally asked and pulled herself on top of him. Raminus sat beneath her with his hands on her thighs and took a long moment to appreciate the change in scenery.

“I think I would prefer we talk about nothing at all.”

And so the pair of wizards fell silent, but It was not long before they found another activity by which to occupy their time.

* * *

Dawn crept in through the window, its pale light breaking the early morning dark of the bedroom. Raminus had awoken nearly half an hour ago to a strange nibbling on the sole of his foot. Though Schemer had since left him alone, he didn’t bother attempting to return to sleep. He knew they’d need to be up soon to return to the University, so instead he lay still, watching the rise and fall of Nim’s breaths beside him.

After many minutes passed, she too awoke and squinted her eyes open. “Hey,” she whispered hoarsely and peered at him with a soft smile.

Raminus welcomed the warmth of her body as she pulled herself to him. “Hey.”

“Raminus?”

“Yes?”

“I’m not dreaming, am I?”

“Not unless I am too.”

Nim placed a light kiss against the pulse of his neck, nestled into the curve formed as it met his shoulder. “Then we really are together now, aren’t we?”

“We are occupying the same square meter of space, yes.”

“Raminus.”

“What?”

“You’re too clever for your own good.”

Raminus shifted onto his elbow and watched as Nim stretched, a shrill, satisfied squeak of a moan as the joints along her spine popped and crackled. He hadn’t seen her like this in a long time. Calm. Pleased. _Happy_, and as she sidled up against his chest, he wondered if he was a part of that happiness too. He wondered if someone else was. It wouldn’t surprise him, all that time spent away from the University, the questions she left unanswered.

Stroking back her hair, he looked down at her and though she was still smiling, his heart felt heavy in his chest. His mind wandered until he found himself in shadowy places best left unilluminated. Doubt gnawed into his gut and no matter how he tried, he could not push it firmly from his thoughts.

Why couldn’t he accept that she was here in his arms? Not racing through fiery hellscapes. Not hunting down necromancers. Not disappearing to Gods know where. Here in his arms. Why couldn’t they be like this tomorrow, the day after? Where would she be in a week’s time?

He felt her head turn to look up at him and he shook the glaze from his eyes, but not quick enough to mask the solemn expression on his face before she had caught it.

Her face pinched curiously. “For so early in the morning, you look awfully pensive,” she said.

“No.” Raminus gave his head a small shake and returned to brushing through her hair. “No, I’m not.”

“Mhm,” she hummed, unconvinced, and stared for a moment longer. “You are thinking.”

Raminus only looked at her.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Are you having regrets about last night?”

“Gods no,” he assured her quickly and kissed the top of her head. “It’s nothing like that. Nothing at all like that.”

“What then?”

“It’s nothing, really.”

“You can tell me.”

Raminus paused. “I- I would be out of line to say.”

“What? Speak freely with me, please.”

A long pause of brittle silence filled the bedroom, broken only by the call of white gulls taking to flight along the distant shoreline.

“There’s someone else, isn’t there?” He managed to eke out and felt his stomach turn as the words left him.

Nim lifted her head off his chest and stared at him with round, dark eyes, nearly black in the silver morning light. “What?”

“I’m sorry. I knew it wasn’t my place to say."

“Why would you think that?” she replied, and the defensive pique in her voice did not at all reassure him.

“There are parts of your life that you hide from me. You disappear for weeks at a time, and I can’t reach you in Anvil even though you claim to have gone home. The man at the tavern last night, he knew you well. I saw the way he looked at you.”

“Am I not allowed to have a past?”

“Of course you are, but I- I can’t bear the thought of being without you. I never thought I’d be here beside you, and I can’t stand to think that one day I won’t be. I need to know, Nim. Is it true?”

“There is only you,” she told him, and it was a desperate, burning whisper on her lips. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled herself to the corner of his mouth, kissing him there then trailing her lips down the length of his jaw. She held onto him like a twisting, curling vine, like the morning glory that crept across the windows and cracks in the walls, that gave life to her cold, stone manor. “How could you not know this by now? There was only ever you.”

Raminus allowed himself to melt into her warmth with forlorn hope flickering in his heart like a lone candle. If she lied to him, at least she lied so sweetly.

“I love you, Raminus Polus.”

He inhaled sharply, a visceral surge of electricity shooting through him.

“How else can I explain this longing that has possessed me? Ever since I came to know you, Raminus, it’s been here like a second heartbeat aching in my chest. I love you, with all of who I am. I do.”

“Nim—"

“Please don’t say anything,” she whispered. “Not now. I only wanted you to know.”

His silence, however, did not last long. “Do you mean what I think you do?” He asked, and she looked up at him with wonder, eyes watery and bright. “Would you have me?”

“I think I already did.” 

Raminus’ cheeks burned with tender, rosy heat. “I love you," he said, "and I mean it so. I want to be yours and only yours.” He kissed her deeply. Languorous, calm, and perfect.

Nim buried her face into his neck, gasping for breath and clutching him as though if she didn’t, she’d wither and fall to pieces in his embrace.

“Then I will be yours and only yours,” she lied.

And she lied to him so sweetly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi – me again. I just wanted to tell everyone who is reading how much I appreciate you :) I've been taking mad long to update (sorry!!), and it’s so motivating to see that people are enjoying Nims story.
> 
> So thanks again for taking the time to read, comment, kudo, etc. I’ve been busy with school things and also spent a bit of time editing earlier chapters cause they were not all that great haha. I didn't even know head-hopping was a thing before writing this and then realized my story is plagued with it :| 
> 
> More to come. Not more head-hopping though.


	40. Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am posting this well after midnight local time and have ZERO right to do so. If there are mistakes, I took full credit. Sorry, maybe I will catch them in the morning.

**Chapter 40: Ice**

Winter was already showing its teeth up in the Heartlands, and the air promised of a coming snowstorm. Nim pressed Shadowmere onward through the barren forest and cursed the biting cold that rustled her hair and nipped at the tips of her ears. Before too long, the chill had settled straight into her bones.

Northbound for Lake Arrius, she tried not to let the bliss of the past few days spent in Raminus’ company fog up her mind, though she found pressing such thoughts from her head quite difficult. They were warm thoughts, cloyingly sweet like honey melting against her tongue, and she knew she’d make herself sick if she dwelled on them too long. When she had left him for the road, he was still sleeping on the bed in her new quarters, Schemer and Bok-Xul curled up at his legs. Gods, she wished she was still there in the safety of the University’s walls, in the safety of his arms…

Nim snapped her attention back to the road. There was important work to complete. Dangerous work, and she couldn’t let such idle, mawkish thoughts distract her if she wanted to get through her tasks with her life still in one piece. Infiltrating a Daedric cult was as ambitious an assignment as destroying Mannimarco’s, and while Nim was unconvinced she could do either, those around her seemed intent on letting her die trying. She wondered if they saw something in her that she could not. A mark of the Divines? A curse, for that matter? Perhaps they sensed her sheer dumb luck, or maybe she carried herself in such a way that seemed to signal she’d keel over and let anyone and their scamp trample over her if they only asked kindly.

Cresting over the rocky hill, she paused Shadowmere’s descent to peer down and scan the shoreline of Lake Arrius in search of the destined caverns that held the Mythic Dawn’s shrine. The lake was silver as the light of Magnus played across its surface. Strange to think that such evil lurked within the mountains surrounding those calm waters. Shadowmere’s breaths wisped into the gray morning air, and stroking absently at the horse’s neck, Nim thought of Lucien. Fort Farragut was not so far away either, just a bit southwest. She wondered if Lucien was there, sitting alone in that cursed, moldy dungeon like a prideful troll, and snorted.

She could see him now, working away at his alchemical bench, brewing weak, watery potions with his hair loose and his shirt unlaced. Lucien at his study scribbling down another contract for her in that verbose and flowery Cyrodillic he loved so much, too many words that meant the same thing. _Kill this man. Kill him for me._

Maybe he was playing his lyre. Nim could see it if she squinted. Instrument held in his lap, eyes closed, fingers dancing, and that smug little grin on his dark features. At that thought, the rancor in her heart softened. Should she ever find herself back in his home, she’d ask him to play for her again. The same song. Maybe a new one too. He truly was gifted, she mused, and he played so beautifully that he almost made her forget what a monster he was, what a monster she had become too.

_No, _Nim shook her head. It didn’t matter how lovely a gift he possessed, he was still _Lucien,_ and he wanted something from her that could only end in death. She could never allow herself to trust him, no matter what his intentions truly were. It’s not like she could ever hope to understand them anyway. Why just the other day she read through his latest order for her and was surprised to find that he did not call her back to Fort Farragut immediately. Wasn’t that what he said he would ask of her? Did he want to give her space? Was he angry with her? Who knew with that man? Who knew?

It was best this way, she decided. Working with him from a distance, not letting herself grow too comfortable, grow _distracted_.

_You think you’re any different from the last Silencer he had?_

Mathieu’s warning rattled inside her skull with a tinny echo. She knew nothing about Aventina except for what Vicente had told her, that she had died on contract. The very same contract that Lucien had assigned to Nim before the purification.

_And yet his last Silencer met a death of his own making._

Had he wanted Aventina to die? Had he wanted Nim to? Had he… had he killed her? But what of the tenets?

Nim took a deep, shuddering breath and felt her lungs constrict within her chest as frosty air filled them. She focused instead on what Lucien had asked of her in his first order. Dead drops, he had called them. Nim scoffed_. How imaginative_.

His instructions directed her to a cave east of Bravil where a Necromancer was said to be in the process of metamorphosing into a Lich. Nim found only humor in the request. A _necromancer’s _cave. She was certain that Lucien was mocking her.

At least she’d feel no guilt about this one. What was one less necromancer in the world to her anyway?

Speaking of dead necromancer’s, which she did an awful lot of these days, Nim had heard that the Battlemages were successful in securing the Black Soul Gem from Silorn. They should have been on their way back to the University with the artifact at the very same time that she travelled away from it. A dreadful curiosity flooded through her as she wondered just what Traven planned to do with it. If they were to defeat Mannimarco, she certainly hoped his plans involved a large and powerful weapon that needed enchanting.

Funny how the Council surrendered to the Arch-mage’s suggestion of using a Black Soul Gem without much argument at all. Nim found it a bit hypocritical given his previous ban on such tools, but truthfully, she wasn’t sure she understood the outcry surrounding the use of them in the first place. As long as the souls contained within the gems were responsibly sourced, why should it matter that it contained the life force of a man or a wild boar? She had killed more than a few necromancers in the past year, and it was such a shame that she couldn’t at least recharge the enchantments on her short-sword with them for her efforts.

Would it really be so bad if she kept an empty one on hand? Between the necromancers and bandits she crossed while traversing the wilderness, there were ample opportunities to refill a gem. If anyone found one on her, of course it would be confiscated, but Nim knew how to make them now. If she really, _really _needed to.

Nim swallowed down the thought and urged Shadowmere onward. When had she become so callous to the thought of using a necromancer’s tools for her own convenience? She shrugged, her hypocrisy amusing her, for was it really so different from the life she stole as an assassin of the Dark Brotherhood? She didn’t need a stern berating from the Divines above to know she was no paragon of Arkay’s Law.

Nim cackled into the winter air, the sharp sound driving nearby birds from their resting perch on the bare oaks surrounding her. While there was little she could preach on from a moral high ground these days, she could admit that, yes, she was an assassin, she was the Gray Fox, she was a bloody Daedric Prince, but _at least_ she was not a necromancer.

* * *

“Dawn is breaking.”

“Greet the new day.”

The man in burgundy robes smiled approvingly at Nim’s reply, his curling lips the only feature on his face unobscured by his heavy hood.

“Welcome, sister,” he said. Nim forced down a bilious churning at the familial greeting.

_Cults and their distorted interpretation of family_. She inwardly winced. Not that she knew much about having an honest-to-Gods family, but she knew for certain that if she was never called _sister_ again, she’d be quite content. 

The man continued. “The hour is late, but the Master still has need for willing hands.”

“Here I stand, offering mine,” she replied with a saccharine warmth.

The man’s smile deepened. Cryptic metaphors seemed to be positively accepted here too. This did not surprise her. It was a secret cult after all.

“You may pass into the Shrine,” he said, unlocking the door at which he stood guard. “Brother Harrow will take you to the Master for your initiation into the service of Lord Dagon. Do not tarry. The time of cleansing draws near.”

Nim nodded and proceeded into the next chamber of the cavern, containing the chill the prickled up her arms as the door slammed shut behind her. Several meters down the rock tunnel, she spied a burning torch and a blood-red banner with the decal of a rising sun emblazoned across it. A robed Dunmer stood in waiting, beckoning her forward.

“Welcome, Sister. I am Harrow, warden of this shrine,” the Dunmer said, his smile enthusiastic, warm, and dangerous. “You stand before us now having followed the Path of Dawn. By doing so you have earned a place among the Chosen.”

Nim bowed her head in feigned reverence and when she looked up, she found Harrow offering her a set of identical red robes. She took them gingerly.

“Put those on now and relinquish your possessions to me. As a member of the Order of the Mythic Dawn, everything you need will be provided for you from the Master's bounty. Be free now. We welcome you.”

Though his smile remained sickly-sweet, Harrow’s eyes were scrutinizing. He stood in waiting, arms held out to accept her bag. She slipped it off her shoulders quickly, masking her reluctance behind an eager grin as she handed it to him.

_This is what people trade all their worldly possessions for,_ Nim mused as she began to unbuckle her armor._ An itchy red robe and a handful of pretty words?_

She was reminded of earlier years, years spent as a disciple of Mephala, her old life out in the sticks of the Nibenay Valley where she worked away on a modest, little farm and learned of illusion magic and alchemy. Her coven practiced their own rituals in worship of the Webspinner. They sang her cryptic hymn and reveled in talk of prophetic dreams. Mephala and her daughters had given Nim a home when she had nowhere else to turn but the empty, darkness of death’s embrace. Was it really any different from what these people were doing here? 

Was life in service of the Divines so different? She wondered what Martin gave up when he entered the priesthood.

Trying not to look distracted in thought, Nim continued disrobing and was genuinely surprised to find that Harrow had looked away to offer her privacy.

_Well, it’s good to know not all murderous lunatics are uncivilized brutes_, she scoffed to herself, thinking briefly of Lucien and just as soon pressed thought of him from her mind. With Harrow’s back half-turned away from her, she risked keeping the Blade of Woe strapped to her thigh and concealed it beneath the flowing red fabric of her robes.

Finishing off the costume, she slipped into a set of skin-tight leather gloves and then followed Harrow deeper into the tunnel. They passed through one more door and emerged at the top of a dark ledge that stood overlooking a tall, hollow chamber. Harrow led her toward a staircase carved into the very stone of the cavern, and as Nim followed behind him, she peered down to see nearly a dozen cultists crowding around a raised platform in the center of the chamber. They stood in silence, all identically robed with wide, awe-struck eyes as an Altmeri man preached to them from behind a stone pedestal. Behind the Altmer lay an unconscious and half-dressed Argonian man. Behind the Argonian stood a towering statue of Mehrunes Dagon, Lord of Destruction.

“Hear now the words of Lord Dagon,” Nim heard the man on the platform shout. “When I walk the earth again, the Faithful among you shall receive your reward: to be set above all other Mortals forever.”

“Am I late to something?” Nim whispered to Harrow only to be cut off with a loud hiss.

“Silence! The Master speaks!”

_The Master? _Nim took a moment to recover from the harshness of Harrow’s scolding and then looked back to the Altmer across the cavern. _Was this Mankar Camoran_?

The Altmer in question stood bathed in the murky light that filtered in from the cracks of the caverns roof, gesturing ardently to punctuate his speech on Paradise, the coming dawn, and Lord Dagon’s promised return. Nim walked faster to join the crowd at the base of the altar as an inexplicable sense of urgency swelled within her. She looked up toward Camoran, mirroring the admiration of those around, and shivered as she recognized the gold amulet clasped around his neck. For the remainder of her days, she’d never be able to forget the way it looked at her, the way that sparkling, red gemstone laughed and mocked her.

A fiery, orange glow grew from behind the pedestal, and with hardly any warning Camoran disappeared into it. Nim bit her tongue to contain her gasp and looked around the room frantically. He had disappeared! She had come to retrieve the Amulet of Kings and that bloody thing was now gone again!

Nim tried to slow her breathing as she wondered just how she was to escape now. If she had tried to attack Camoran, she likely would have been killed, but did she have any chance at breaking free now?

Harrow nudged her, jostling her from her thoughts. “Ruma Camoran is summoning you to the altar,” he said, grinning serenely and pointing up toward the raised platform where a robed Altmer woman stood in waiting. “The time has come to bind yourself to the service of Lord Dagon.”

Nim nodded silently and proceeded toward the steps, passing through the crowd who continued to stare at her, stone-still and smiling. She dared not look into their faces.

“Advance initiate,” Ruma called to her and when they stood in front of each other, she held out an ornate silver dagger. “You have come to dedicate yourself to Lord Dagon. This pact must now be sealed with red-drink, the blood of Lord Dagon's enemies.”

Nim accepted the dagger and looked around the platform. A large book rested on the stone pedestal where Camoran had once stood, its leather binding engraved with Daedric lettering and sigils. She guessed that this was the book that Mankar Camoran had been reading from, and if it truly detailed Dagon’s invasion of Nirn as his sermon had suggested, it might also prove useful to the Blades. Nim stared at it hopefully. She might not be bringing back the Amulet of Kings, but perhaps this failed mission would not prove entirely fruitless

Ruma directed Nim toward the altar at the foot of Dagon’s statue where the naked Argonian lay. “Sate our Lords thirst,” she said, hazel eyes eager.

Nim knew she couldn’t refuse now. She’d seen too much to be allowed to walk from the shrine freely. She clutched the dagger in her curled fist and stared blankly at Ruma until she felt her eyes burn. The wind whistled above them, filling the cavern with a sibilant echo and the whisper of frosted air, but Nim heard only the thunder of blood in her ears as she stared ahead. Seconds ticked away.

Ruma furrowed her brows, Nim’s hesitancy becoming increasingly obvious, and a soft murmur broke through the crowd of cultists below them.

“Lord Dagon demands red-drink,” Ruma said again, but this time her voice was as cold as the air within the chamber, void of any of the fondness Nim had heard earlier.

Nim nodded, inching closer. She played along and felt a smile quirk at the corner of her mouth, small and unsuspecting, as she readied her weapon.

“And sated his thirst shall be.”

Casting a paralyzation spell over Ruma, Nim lunged forward and grabbed hold of the Altmer’s head. She drove her dagger into the side of the woman’s neck and drew the blade toward her, slicing across her throat. Dark, venous blood spilled from the gaping wound as Ruma crashed to the floor, and her body lay still on impact despite the effects of the paralysis having waned. Nim sprinted over to the unconscious Argonian as the hushed silence of the crowd boiled over into cries of rage.

“Wake up!” Nim screamed at the Argonian. “Wake up!”

She shook him, slapped at his face to bring him to consciousness, but the man’s head merely rolled about his shoulders, eyes listlessly flickering open as he surveyed his surroundings. His pupils were wide enough to eclipse the whole of his irises and he sputtered groggily as his gaze flitted to Nim.

He looked drugged, and Nim cursed any hope of the man aiding her in fighting their way out. The best chance for his survival now was to escape quickly and given that she had just killed Mankar Camoran’s daughter, she suspected the Mythic Dawn agents would be plenty preoccupied to turn an eye from a sacrificial lamb. Sending waves of healing magic across his body, Nim dragged the Argonian to his feet and shoved the bloodied, ceremonial dagger into his hand.

“Go!” she screamed again and had just enough time to push him off the edge of the platform as a spike of ice went hurdling through the air in their direction. It shattered against the wall behind her, a smattering of ice flakes melting against the heat of her cheeks.

Within seconds, the cultists had descended upon her. Nim weaved through blasts of destruction magic and dodged blow after blow as she fought her way toward the podium that held Dagon’s sacred text. She lifted it from its pedestal and clutched it to her chest as she leapt off the platform and disappeared into the air. She darted up toward the stone stairs leading toward the chamber’s entrance when as thunderous _crack _split the air. The ground rumbled beneath her feet.

A deafening _crash_.

Shouts of anger tightened into shrieks of pain. The walls shook all around her, knocking small rocks loose from the roof above. Reaching the overhanging ledge, Nim spared a moment to look back and found the statue of Mehrunes Dagon collapsing into boulders, crushing any and all that stood beneath it. The Argonian man was nowhere to be seen and Nim hoped he had made it out of the cavern when he had the chance. Whatever cultist were not already pinned beneath the crumbling chunks of statue were now racing toward the stairs, faces streaked with terror as they attempted to save their own lives.

Nim darted down the tunnel in search of her belongings. Be it material possessions or innocent blood, she was not willing to sacrifice anything today.

* * *

It took a good three days for Nim to reach Cloud Ruler Temple through the blizzard. By the time she arrived, she had been wandering through the darkness for hours, the light of the twin moons having long been blotted out by the heavy clouds above. She could do nothing but hope that she was headed the right way. Fortunately, Shadowmere seemed to have a better sense of direction than she did, and when she saw the towering stone fortifications of the temple, she nearly wept in relief. Passing off Shadowmere’s reins to the stablehand, Nim made her way toward the giant front doors of the great hall, certain that the marrow in her bones had frozen solid.

The air that greeted her from beyond the doors felt warm and wonderful and rich with the scent of brewed lavender and burning pine. She darted down the aisle of benches, teeth chattering and limbs numb, focused solely on the promised heat of the crackling fire at the end of the hall. As she lay slumped over at the mouth of the fireplace, a soft pitter patter of footsteps sounded from behind her. She peered over her shoulder and across the room, a bedraggled looking Martin ambled forward, a blanket around his shoulders and a cup of tea in his hands.

Nim watched quietly as he walked toward a nearby table cluttered with books and half-legible scrolls. He seemed distracted and her suspicions were confirmed when he startled upon seeing her curled up on the floor, his tea spilling over the rim of his cup.

“Nimileth? Is that you?”

“It is,” she said, shivering as she spoke. “What are you doing awake? It must be past midnight.”

“Are you alright?”

“Cold, that’s all. I got caught in the storm on my way in,” she said all too cheerfully. She wrapped her arms around herself and attempted to warm herself with her magic, but her reserves had been drained dry from keeping the spell up throughout the trek in.

Martin handed her his cup and threw his blanket over her shoulders. “Sit here, won’t you?” He gestured toward the chair set before the fireplace. “And drink this tea. Just a minute, I’ll bring the kettle over.”

“No, it’s fine,” she insisted from her seat on the floor and tugged on the hem of his robe as he turned to leave. “I have some news for you. Not all of it good.”

Martin’s face fell. “You weren’t able to recover the Amulet, were you?”

Nim shook her head. “No. Sit with me for a second. I’ll tell you what happened.”

“At least let me get you a proper chair—”

“Martin, sit,” she said, shooting him an exhausted look. He sat as though on command, and if she wasn’t so mind-numbingly cold, Nim might have realized that she had just interrupted and ordered around the heir of the Dragon Throne as though she were his mother.

Peeling off her gloves, she pressed her hands around the hot cup of tea and released a satisified sigh, savoring the warmth that soothed away the sting of frost in her fingers. She scooted across the floor and pressed her back up to the outer brick of the fireplace as she brought her backpack into her lap.

“What happened at Lake Arrius?” Martin asked. “I’ve been up waiting for your return. I was starting to worry.”

Nim paused from unlatching her pack to look up at him with bewilderment. “You what? By the Nine, Martin. You need to sleep. Don’t tell me you’ve been up all night on my behalf.”

“Well, yes. What else am I to do? I mean, I—” He looked toward the fire, exasperation eating away at his expression. “My head’s been spinning. I’ve been having a difficult time adjusting to everything and can’t seem to sleep much at all. What good would it do me anyway? The Blades are saluting me as Martin Septim. They want an Emperor to tell them what to do and I- I’ve been useless ever since you brought me here.”

“That isn’t true. You are the Emperor they’ve been awaiting for the past two years.”

“No.” Martin furrowed his brows. “No, I’m certainly not.”

Nim shrugged her shoulders and sipped loudly on her tea. “Not yet perhaps, but you represent hope. The only hope, I might add. Without you, there is none at all.”

Martin’s face only grew grimmer. They sat quietly for a moment, sharing in the warmth of the crackling hearth as the wind whistled and hammered against the front door. When she felt the color and blood beginning to return to her extremities, Nim stretched out her legs and returned to rifling about her bag.

“So at Dagon’s shrine,” she began, breaking the silence, “Mankar Camoran escaped through a portal to a realm called Paradise. Some sick joke, huh?” From her pack she withdrew the large tome she had snatched from the antechamber and set it down atop of her belongings. She smiled contently as she nestled into her blanket and flipped through the book on her lap. “I figure this should help us find out where exactly this _Paradise_ is.”

“What is that?” Martin asked, eyeing the Daedric runes on its cover with growing skepticism.

“The Mysterium Xarxes.”

“By the Nine!” Martin shouted, his cry loud enough to wake anyone sleeping in the nearby rooms. He leapt to his feet and attempted to snatch the book from Nim’s hands, meeting ample resistance as he did so. Nim pursed her lips in confusion, uncertain of whether to be scared or irritated by his sudden reaction, but she decided to let the tome go, and watched in amusement as Martin walked it over to his table and buried it beneath the pile of books.

“Forgive me for my outburst,” he said, clearing his throat as he worked down a surge of embarrassment. “This is a terrible artifact of Daedric sorcery. Such a thing is dangerous to even handle. What on Nirn were you doing carrying it about with you?”

“I wouldn’t be concerned with my sanity or my soul if I were you,” Nim said and then washed her words down with the rest of the tea in her cup. “Besides, I’ve already leafed through it. No worse harm can come to me than the frostbite I risked bringing it to you.”

Martin stared at her in a state of complete shock. “You _leafed_ through it?”

She nodded and clasped her hands demurely in her lap. “Briefly, but I’ll need to read through it again if I’m to decipher any of the passages within the—"

Martin’s shock thawed to horror as she continued on. “You _read _it?”

Nim looked at him quizzically. “Are you certain you can hear with both ears, Priest?”

“Oh, quite,” he mumbled and stared at the cursed text sitting on the nearby table, eyes aflame. “And I’m telling you now, you are not to go anywhere near that book again.”

Nim’s eyes snapped wide open. “Excuse me?” She shot back, choosing to swallow the more colorful words of protest that came to mind. 

She had risked her life and at least several digits to bring that damned book back in one piece, and now she wasn’t going to be allowed to read it? And for what reason, fear of a little Daedric magic?

Bah, she had crossed paths with more Daedric magic than most scholars _and _cultists experienced within an entire lifetime. With Nim’s fortune, she suspected it might be enough to last her through immortality.

Martin turned to her, arms crossed like a scolding father. “Did you use any warding spells while reading it?” he asked.

“No.”

“A protection cantrip?”

Nim shook her head.

“Did you take any measure of caution while reading it, any at all?”

She paused for a moment, eyes wandering off to the corner of her field of vision as she attempted to recall her experience with the Mysterium Xarxes over the past few days. “Well, I took care not to get too close to the fire while reading it.”

Martin palmed his forehead and released a deep, tired sigh. “Then it’s abundantly clear to me that you do not understand the danger that this book presents. It is a creation of pure evil written by Mehrunes Dagon himself. You were right to bring it with you, but I cannot in good faith let you continue reading it.”

Nim rose slowly, her blanket slipping from her shoulders and pooling at her feet. “Now just a minute here, Priest,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “I can understand why a Gods-fearing disciple of Akatosh might have qualms about falling victim to the corruptive powers of the Daedra, but trust me when I say I couldn’t be any less concerned for myself.”

Martin looked as though he could barely speak, and then narrowed his brows at her sharply. His expression was positively scrutinizing. “Your confidence is woefully ill-founded.”

“I respectfully disagree.”

“I don’t dare guess how you possess the skill to read Daedric, but as long as I am heir of the Septim bloodline, I will not risk innocent life.” Nim rolled her eyes at this, and Martin held back a flare of temper. “I don’t understand why you’re so dismissive of my concerns. This is no joking matter. Any scholar would agree.”

Watching Martin’s nostrils flare and brows wrinkle, Nim felt a little bad for acting so dismissively. It wasn’t his fault she had grown so insensitive to the dangerous nature of the Daedra. In fact he was doing the right thing by keeping it away from her irresponsible, prying eyes. She nodded to him and gave a shallow sigh.

“You’re right, Martin. I’m being flippant.”

“Indeed you are. I know of ways to protect myself from these dark arts,” he said, “and from now on the study of the Mysterium Xarxes shall be my burden and mine alone.”

A short pause, and then Nim decided to resign herself to Martin’s wishes. They would need to find Mankar Camoran soon, and knowing her spotty schedule, his use of the book would bring results faster than any rate she’d set out to achieve. Besides, it would be good for him to have something to work toward, to keep him occupied. Nim bowed her head theatrically.

“As you wish, my liege,” she said and offered him a small curtsey at which he scrunched his nose.

“Oh, no. Don’t you start saying that too,” he griped. “I’d rather you continue calling me _Priest_.”

Nim smirked. “Well, well. Look at you giving orders left and right. If you’d like it, it will be so.”

“Nimileth,” Martin frowned, “I’d be ever so grateful if just one person here did not treat me like I’ve been the bloody emperor all my life. I’m still human. Show me that courtesy, please.”

“Oh.” Nim felt her stomach drop at the loneliness in his voice, the desperation of his request. “I- I’m sorry, Martin. It was only a joke.”

“I know,” he said, and bent down to pick up the blanket she had dropped. She accepted it from him with a gracious smile. “And it’s fine. It’s a responsibility of my vocation to practice forgiveness after all.”

They stood quietly for a while, but it was now a comfortable silence, genuine and familiar, that filled the empty space of the Great Hall. Nim watched Martin through the makeshift cloak she had made of the blanket, and then reached into her pocket, a flash of excitement in her eyes as though suddenly remembering something.

“Do you want any of these?” She held out a handful of bright red berries, and Martin accepted them without really knowing what they were. He held them up to the light and then to his nose, inspecting them and turning them over. “They’re snowberries,” she told him.

“Oh,” he said, and ate one. Then another. “I didn’t know they grew this far south.”

“Me either. I know you’re not allowed to go outside much, so here’s a little reminder of what exists beyond these walls.”

Martin stopped chewing for a moment and glanced over to her with sad, thoughtful eyes of piercing blue. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

He ate another berry and then gave her a smile that took the air from her lungs. He looked so much like her memory of Uriel Septim when he did that. Like Uriel Septim, but also someone else. Someone else she had met once, she was sure of it, but where? In Kvatch, all those years ago?

“Let’s eat these and finish the tea,” he said, breaking her away from distant memories. “Then off to bed with you.”

“Yes, father,” she joked and followed as he led her to the kitchen where they shared in another serving of lavender tea and a brief respite from the chill of winter.

* * *

Weaving through the darkness of the forest, Mathieu made his way to the safehouse, a small, abandoned shack not far off the Yellow Road. Why must they always meet in abandoned houses? Where was the imagination in that? He’d take a den full of snakes or the hike up the Jeralls to Havilstein’s camp if it meant a break in the monotony of these dusty shacks. Abandoned houses for sanctuaries. Abandoned forts for homes. Thinking of forts, Mathieu didn’t understand how Lucien could live that way by choice, not with the wealth he had. If Mathieu had that kind of money, he’d buy himself a proper house in a proper town. Not Anvil though. Too many pirates. He hoped his new sanctuary would not be moved there for that reason and that reason alone.

Perhaps he ought to forego the idea of moving his Sanctuary to another town in its entirety and buy a nice cottage in the woods. Maybe he’d buy a boat instead. That would be a new one. Assassins out at sea. He wondered if Ungolim would humor him if he made such a proposal at the upcoming meeting, but then quickly struck the idea from his mind. If they lived on a boat, then they’d need to dock somewhere, and if they docked somewhere, pirates would inevitably show up. Few things made his skin crawl more than such a thought.

The Speaker pressed further through the trees, still grumbling to himself. Past a clearing in the brush, he saw the silhouette of a wooden roof and soft orange light flickering in the attic window, a signal that all was clear to proceed. He approached and gave the secret knock, waited only a few seconds before the knob began to turn. Beyond the door, Lucien stood in his black robes gesturing for him to enter with a warm smile that felt out of place in the grim, bleakness of the room. Stepping inside, Mathieu felt his heart still.

They were alone in that shack, and he knew it. It wouldn’t take much to end it all right here. His fist clenched in his glove, aching to reach for the dagger at his hip. The rest of the Black Hand would be arriving soon, but if he managed to survive the duel, he could make a claim for self-defense. Lucien was already under suspicion, but would they believe him? He wasn’t thinking clearly. His head throbbed. Hot blood pounded in his ears and Mathieu fought to control the deep, red anger burning within his chest.

“Dear Brother,” Lucien said, cutting into his impulsive thoughts, “what a pleasure it is to see you.”

“Yes, it makes my heart swell to see such a friendly and familiar face.” Mathieu nodded gratefully and found his seat at the table, quelling the surge of adrenaline that sent fire racing through his limbs.

“You’re early.”

“So are you.”

Lucien took a seat at the far end of the table, a dark smirk growing on his lips. A single candle sat between them, throwing dim shadows of their outlines across the splintered table and weathered walls. “I’m always early,” he said.

Mathieu smiled too, wondering if the Speaker had any _real _hobbies or if he truly was as wedded to this occupation as he made everyone believe.

“Yes, you are,” Mathieu said and batted his eyelashes dotingly. “A true model of excellence. I strive to one day be so prompt and timely as you.”

Lucien clasped his hands atop the table and hummed curiously, cold silence trickling in as the melodic purr of his voice trailed off.

Mathieu scooted his chair closer to the table, leaned against the surface and leered. “You look a bit worse for wear, Lachance. Is that Silencer of yours running you ragged?”

Lucien sighed dramatically and looked over to Mathieu with feigned appreciation. “Winter is just not my season, I’m afraid. My skin doesn't fare well in dry climates, but how’s Kvatch these days? I hear it’s been a warm Evening Star.”

Mathieu released a hollow laugh. “Yes, rather tragic that was, but It’s fine. Lorise and I are looking forward to rebuilding elsewhere. She’s been a great comfort to me in these dark days. Quite the obedient Silencer. The Night Mother has truly blessed me with her many talents.”

Lucien cast a long side glance his way, and Mathieu met the Speaker with a wicked, lecherous grin that made even Lucien’s smile waver.

“Yes,” Lucien mused, “how fortunate for you.”

“Did I tell you, I saw Nimileth racing into that Oblivion gate,” Mathieu continued. “The Hero of Kvatch, I’ve heard the people call her. I can’t tell if she’s truly that confident or if she’s deadest on getting herself killed. You really ought to keep her on a tighter leash." He paused, waved his hand flippantly through the air. "Then again, that’s never been your style, am I right, Brother? You rather like it when they drive you a bit crazy.”

Lucien quirked a brow, genuine surprise taking to his features. Clearly, this was news to him.

“Have you not heard?” Mathieu pressed him. “It’s been all over the papers.”

Lucien released a tepid sigh and shook his head, looking exhausted. “That woman will be the death of me.”

“What a twist that would be for you,” the Breton snickered, and Lucien’s glare grew frigid. “She passed your message along, by the way. Thank you for the kind words.”

“Had I known she would find you so quickly, I might have sent her with flowers.”

“Oh, Lucien. I am touched.”

“The frequency with which the two of you run into each other cannot be coincidental.”

“What can I say,” Mathieu shrugged. “It’s a small world.”

Lucien shifted in his seat, looking more annoyed now than angry. “I ought to give her more contracts,” he grumbled. “So much free time is dangerous.”

“Oh, I’m certain she has no shortage of additional avenues by which to occupy her time. Busy woman, she is.”

With a barely audible groan, Lucien stood from his seat, the rickety chair legs creaking from beneath him. “I’m quite tired of this conversation, Speaker,” he said, and gathered up his trailing robes as he turned away from the table. “If you’ll excuse me, I ought to man the back door.”

Mathieu propped his legs up on the now empty chair and peered over his backrest to watch as Lucien took his leave. He had only travelled a few feet before Mathieu called out to him.

“All the sacrifices you’ve made, and you still can’t keep her,” the Breton tutted, shaking his head with a frown. His onxy-black eyes glinted devlishly. “At least you’re a good sport about it.”

Lucien turned and clenched his jaw. The muscles at his temples strained, a vein rising there along his face as he forced a thin smile onto his lips. “Think carefully on your next words, Bellamont.”

“If only you knew what she does in her spare time. The places she’d go to get away from you, the arms she’d throw herself into. She must have a thing for authority figures. Funny isn't it? She's never really like being bossed around." Mathieu let a small chuckle rise to the back of his throat as he watched Lucien's expression pinch. "Oh, don't look so troubled, Brother. You wouldn't find him threatening, the man she sees. He’s a fair bit younger than you, that or it’s a side-effect of the magicka. Can you imagine all the tricks a pair of mages must share in bed? I imagine common rabble like us must pale in comparison.”

Mathieu held Lucien’s stare for what felt like minutes but could only have been several seconds at the most. If the poor fool knew what was good for him he would have looked away, stammered out an apology, turned and fled. But Mathieu didn’t care. He’d pay any price, be it gold or be it blood to see Lucien squirm like this before him. 

And the Imperial looked deep in thought, gears turning and grinding. Gears smoking. Mathieu maintained the glare and with each second the man in front of him became something less and less human until at last, he could see nothing behind Lucien’s eyes but black and bitter void.

“You think you have everyone fooled, but I see you exactly for what you are,” Lucien said, and his voice was calm, cool, empty.

“Oh?”

“You are a spiteful, insignificant little worm hellbent on destroying everyone that has welcomed you into their arms. For what, Mathieu? Have we not given you a home, honored your skill, loved you as one of our own? I don’t understand what drives you to such depravity.”

“Depravity?” Mathieu cackled, a thunderous, ringing sound from the bottom of his soul. “Dear Brother, I would have thought you of all people understood the fathomless depths of Sithis’ chaos. What are you accusing me of then? Do spit it out.”

Lucien inched closer, and though he wasn’t much taller than Mathieu, his shadow loomed over him, stretching across the walls, growing, ever reaching.

“I know what you’ve done.”

Mathieu only grinned and dipped his head back over the top of his chair like a flower basking in the sun. He looked up at Lucien, eyes twinkling. “I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking about.”

The crunch of footsteps on dry leaf litter seeped in through the cracks in the windows. The rest of the Black Hand would be arriving soon, but Lucien didn’t seem to care as he leaned in. He gripped the backrest of the chair with one hand, pressed the other to the back of Mathieu’s head and curled his lips into a snarl.

“I know what you did to Cheydinhal,” Lucien whispered into his ear, and then pulled away, stared down at the Breton with eyes so cold they burned.

“Well, that would make the tragedy quite grimmer, wouldn’t it? If the traitor were still running amuck? How ever shall you sleep tonight knowing what you’ve ordered on that guilty conscience of yours?” Mathieu stood from the table and walked smoothly toward the door to greet the approaching Speakers. He cast one last look over his shoulder. “Does Nimileth know of your suspicions? I can’t imagine how she’d take the news, finding out Vicente died for nothing. Where would she run to next, I wonder?”

Lucien stood there, face eclipsed by darkness. A pause. A flicker of something redolent of emotion. _Almost,_ but not quite.

And then it was gone.

“I have done only what the Black Hand has demanded to honor Sithis' will.”

Mathieu hummed cheerfully and shook his head. “She doesn’t know, does she?”

He stared hard, searching and waiting, but all he found on Lucien’s face was a perfectly sculpted mask of man, and behind it, there was simply nothing there at all.

With that he turned away and opened the door, welcoming the frigid gale that swept over him as the dark of the night flooded into the room, the Black Hand not far behind it.


	41. Hollow Wind, Full of Breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow guys, this story hit 100 Kudos with the last chapter. I know it is just a silly little fanfic, but thank you so much for the support and comments. I'm so shocked people even read XD 
> 
> It brings me so much happiness to know that this story is being enjoyed by all of you.

**Chapter 41: Hollow Wind, Full of Breath**

The doors of Fort Farragut groaned as Lucien entered. He walked briskly, gliding deeper into the fortress where the air smelled lightly of dust, of nightshade and harrada, of the soft whispers of death. Though familiar to his senses, this offered him little comfort tonight, and he pushed past his ambling guardians restlessly. The din of their echoing footsteps trailed behind him as he wound through the maze of tunnels. Down, down, down he followed them until he reached his chamber.

He had to find her, soon. She had to be told of his suspicions, and he wondered, would she believe him? In time and with evidence, he suspected she’d see the truth for what it was, but oh, how she’d fight him when she learned. There was no getting around that anymore, and he had accepted it. She’d scream, thrash about. She’d curse him, say horrible, vile things that she didn’t mean, and of course, she didn’t mean them.

Lucien knew that she didn’t mean them.

He would write to her, he decided and began to ready himself for bed, stripping off his robes and letting his hair gather at his shoulders, free from strain. He’d explain it all, why he didn’t tell her sooner, why she needed to know now, and she’d see it then. She wasn’t stupid, even though she _loved_ to act the part.

_Stubborn thing._

And if she wasn’t convinced by his letter? Lucien paused, his hands hovering above the wash basin atop his dresser, the tips of his fingers dipping in. He hadn’t convinced Ungolim of his suspicions, possessed no real evidence that could implicate Bellamont anyway. Conjecture and surmise, that’s all he had. Guesswork and a slew of macabre coincidences. But Lucien knew something was wrong with that man, knew a terrible thing would happen if he was not stopped soon.

How could no one else see it? The ties to Cheydinhal— Maria. Blanchard. Banus. What had Mathieu done that made them trust him so? The Listener would not even _listen_. Lucien felt he was living in a nightmare, but as unfortunate as it was, he understood. _A betrayal in the Black Hand? _The thought was almost too grim to entertain.

And so he would find the evidence he needed, Lucien resolved. Bellamont was ambitious, but he was also young, and comparatively inexperienced. He had a drinking problem, trouble reining in his impulses, and acted with little forethought if an opportunity presented itself. The Breton had proven this many times. He must have made a misstep somewhere along his tracks, and Lucien would find out where if he was driven to turning over rocks in search of it. He seemed to spend a lot of time Anvil, a lot of time with _his_ Silencer. He’d search there first, then he’d bring what he found to Ungolim. He’d bring it to Nim. By Sithis, what was it about Bosmer that made them so stubborn? So stubborn it made his head spin.

Lucien splashed his face and stared into the surface of the washing bowl. He grimaced, his reflection rippling as water dripped off his chin.

What did she like about Mathieu anyway? What history could they possibly share? Lucien loathed the fact that he was even thinking about this. He was playing right into Bellamont’s hands.

And just what had he been telling Nim that made her trust him so? Lucien could see it now, Bellamont at her ear, buzzing like a starved corpse fly, his tongue coated with poison as he whispered to her in some maze of back alleys along the docks of Anvil. Bellamont, his hands around her, pulling her further into the dark, further and further away from _him._

_This is pathetic_, Lucien told himself. _You are acting pathetic._

She was _his _Silencer, and she would do as she was told. He would warn her of Bellamont and she _would _understand. She would see why the purification was necessary and how he had no choice but to order her to complete it. Best he tell her of this in person, he decided, gauge her reaction. At least he’d know then if she planning to run.

Lucien slipped into his bed and stared off into the moonless void of his chamber as the cool sheets settled across his skin. He wondered where she was now. Likely not at Leafrot Cave where she should be, and he scowled. She was slow to complete her work these days, always occupied by something else. Lucien knew of her rank in the Mages Guild, suspected she had appearances to keep up. _Just what kind of appearances_, he wondered. What was it that Bellamont had said? Something about a mage, a man she’d been seeing, a man she’d been--

Lucien shook his head, casting the thought into the darkness to be picked apart by creeping insects and drained dry by spiders. No, those were Bellamont’s words. This is was nothing but a sinister little seed driven down into his mind, planted with the purpose of spreading a rot enough to fell him. And if it were true? Lucien swallowed hard, his throat tightening. Was it that Dunmer he had seen her with in Bravil? Someone new? How many others were there? He would find that man, find him and--

No.

It was a lie and Bellamont wanted him to fixate on it. It was lie meant to distract him from the real treachery. Lucien would not give in so easily.

Either way, he knew Nim was a slippery thing, and following her return from Gods-know-where, he’d taken to having the Dark Brotherhood’s eyes watch her. Their latest report arrived just that evening. She’d been spending a fair bit of time North near Bruma, consorting with the Blades.

When he had learned of it, Lucien felt blood rush from his heart as he had never felt it before. He was certain he’d need to kill her, certain she was a spy planted here by the Empire. The Sithis-damned traitor herself. When he had learned of it, a flood of emotion washed over him so fiercely he thought it’d level him. Brewing wrath, a surge of excitement, an aching pang of dreadful sorrow.

But Lucien had reveled in those thoughts for only a brief moment before reason returned to him. If Nim had ulterior motives, she would at the very least feign interest in her work. If she was working undercover for the Blades, she’d be doing as told to blend in, keeping her eye on the job instead of trying to drive him mad.

_That woman._

Maybe if she actually were a spy, she wouldn’t be so stubborn. He’d met rocks with softer heads than hers. Lucien laughed quietly to himself, then frowned, the sound of his voice growing in the emptiness of his room with a plaintive, rumbling _clang_.

He would give her time to complete her dead drop, and then he’d send for her. She was _his_ Silencer, and she _would_ do as she was told.

Eventually, anyway. Lucien was a persistent man.

* * *

Nim awoke not long after sunrise, surprised to find Martin up and reading at his desk. He looked firmly ensconced at his workstation beside a half-eaten loaf of bread and an open jar of honey. He looked as though he had been there for hours. Nim rubbed at her eyes and shambled over to him with a half-formed smile dropping on her tired features.

At the desk, Martin was hunched over the Mysterium Xarxes. A familiar pile of books sat beside him, and upon closer inspection, Nim recognized them as the Mythic Dawn Commentaries, all four volumes present and looking well-rummaged through.

“Bit of light reading?” Nim said, letting out a long yawn. “You know, I could have brought you those from the Archives if you had asked.”

Martin shook his head as though waking himself from a dream, as though he hadn’t even noticed her noisily shuffling over.

“Oh, good morning,” he said and cleared his throat. He looked over to the stack of books at his side, face wan and blinking rapidly. “I had requested them as soon as Baurus informed me that they had been found. I was honestly just looking for a productive way to spend my time. I figured it couldn’t hurt to have them around for reference.”

Martin looked positively sleepless. “Are you alright?” Nim asked.

“Yes, um. Yes, I’m fine. Do you want any bread?” he offered. Nim shook her head.

“No, that’s alright. I’ll go down to the kitchen later. Did you sleep?”

“Yes of course,” he said, and then laughed, the sound muted. “You sound like Jauffre when you ask that.”

Nim looked hardly convinced. “Well, alright. And I hope those help,” she said, pointing at the commentaries. “I guess I delivered the Mysterium Xarxes to you with good timing, huh?”

“Quite opportune, and speaking of, you should be back in bed after that journey you undertook. What are you doing up so early?”

“Early?” Nim asked, scrunching her face. “I slept in. Martin, it’s past nine.”

“Is it?” Martin looked startled. “My Gods, I could have sworn Magnus was just beginning to crest over the hills.”

“You were awake at dawn? I should be asking why you were up so early, reading that cursed thing. Can’t be good for your spirits to read such a ‘_terrible artifact of Daedric Sorcery’_ before breakfast,” she gibed, marking the quote with her fingers and doing her best impression of his own concern from the night before.

Martin met her with a frown, clearly unamused and bordering on irritated.

“I did it again,” Nim sighed, looking upset at herself. “I’m sorry. I’ll control myself next time.”

“I don’t understand how you can be so flippant about such things. Daedric magic is known to be destructive, and if you don’t take my word for it you can read about it in numerous historic accounts. You’ve walked the ruins of Kvatch yourself. You know what it’s capable of.”

“Mm-mm,” she replied, disagreeing and shaking her head. “Daedra didn’t open the gate at Kvatch. It was opened by Mankar Camoran. The assassination of the Emperor was done at the hands of men working under Camoran’s orders. He and his cult are responsible for all of this, just as Mannimarco was responsible for the Soulburst that allowed Molag Bal to invade Tamriel. The Daedra have little power outside their own sphere. That’s why they require the assistance of mortals. None of this would have happened without the inherent greed of man.”

Martin was silent for a while. The mild annoyance in his face had melted away, and he looked at Nim thoughtfully.

“Do you not the think it possible that they were swayed into the service of the Daedra? Couldn’t they have been corrupted by such evil magics?”

Nim scoffed derisively, a flip smirk growing at the corner of her lips. “No.”

For a moment, Martin looked as though he might laugh at her blunt reply, but instead he clasped his hands atop the table and leaned forward. “And why not?”

“Because they were corrupt long before. I bet they sought out the Daedric Princes themselves, offered up their servitude in hope that their lord would bless them with immortality or something ridiculous like that. Look at Mannimarco. It’s a tale as old as time, Martin. Men are prideful, hungry things.”

“What of the men and women who fought against Molag Bal and the Order of the Black Worm? The ones who saved and the ones who healed?”

Nim wrinkled her brow. “What about them?”

“Were they prideful, hungry things too?”

“Some,” she shrugged. “Those who fight for the glory and honor of war still fight for their own pride.”

“Those are the heroes we sing tales of,” Martin added. “Pride in a just victory is nothing to feel shame for.”

“I- I didn’t say it was.” Nim looked confused for a moment, then started again. “And so what? Hunger is nothing to feel shame for either. It’s a natural instinct that drives people in many directions, but it doesn’t always end in murder and cannibalism.”

“Yet pride and greed are two qualities you ascribed to Mankar Camoran and Manimmarco to explain their propensity for wickedness, two qualities that you’ve also just admitted are well within reasonable for the mortal experience. Tell me, Nim, why then do some fall to darkness while others walk in light?”

Nim pinched her face at the question, her expression growing dubious. “Are you preaching at me, Priest? Bloody hell, I just woke up and you’re already at it.”

Martin smiled, a small chuckle slipping through his closed lips. “I thought we were just talking,” he said. “But think about it. I want to know your answer.”

“Well then…” she paused, tugging on the chain of her amulet as she pondered. “I suppose some never learned self control. They like getting what they want, even if it brings harm to others.”

“Young children often do the same. Does that make them immoral?”

“No, it’s not the same,” she said, shaking her head. “Children, they don’t understand it yet at that age. They don’t know that the world exists outside of themselves or that there is right and there is wrong. But they grow and they learn. People like Mannimarco and Mankar Camoran know of good and evil, they just don’t care.”

“And who tells a child right from wrong?”

“Their parents, I suppose.”

Martin nodded and held her gaze. “What else shapes a child’s morality?” he asked.

A pause, and Nim worried the inside of her cheek. She didn’t know why she was entertaining such a conversation, but she felt compelled to continue, as though he were somehow drawing the words from her.

“The ideals of the community they grew up in,” she said. “Scripture. The word of the deities they’ve been told to worship.”

“And if your deity tells you that ‘_as he wants, you must want to_?’”

Nim shifted on her feet, recognizing the passage from Camoran’s commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes. She had read all four volumes in order to decipher the message that led her to the Mythic Dawn. It seemed Martin had found these excerpts in his research too, but why bring them up? Just what was he getting at?

The Priest continued. “What if your Gods say to ‘_eat and bleed them dry, the gone-forlorn_,’ to ‘_spit out and burn to the side that which made the faithless delay? _Wouldn’t you heed their word? It would be expected of you under your faith, after all.”

“But they know it’s not the right thing.” Nim found herself flushed, a flare of defense pitching in her voice. “They aren’t children. They _know.”_

“Therein lies the force of the Daedra’s corruptive sway. They _make _you believe. They make you believe so strongly that you will erase all you’ve ever loved or held as true and good. That is what they are, beings of consumption, and when their magic is wrought you are left with nothing to recognize as your own. Not even your own soul.”

Nim blanched. When she had accepted Mephala’s teaching into her heart, had she lost herself too? When she first put on Nocturnal's cowl, had the curse tainted her soul?

What had happened to that little servant girl from Kvatch who prayed to Stendarr every night to forgive her wicked thoughts? She thumbed the pendant of the Charity of Madness around her neck. If she truly was Daedra herself, did she even have a soul? Was that little girl from Kvatch dead? Her eyes snapped up to Martin.

“But what if you espouse the Daedra’s teachings because their beliefs are already akin to yours?” she asked him. “Then you’re culpable. You sought them out with purpose. Not everyone is good before falling into the Daedra’s service.”

“Just because one is immoral doesn’t mean they are impervious to the corruptive forces of the Daedra. Imagine one who is lost and then captured by the jaws of Oblivion. What may have been a petty criminal, or an angry man becomes something greater, something fearsome, and then they evanesce. Think about it. Would Mannimarco have been able to bring about the Planemeld without the Molag Bal behind him?”

Nim thought on it for a moment, and then shrugged her shoulders. “No, I suppose not, but he was still evil before his pact with Bal. He was exiled from Artaeum for his dark interests. He is the reason why we are still dealing with these Necromancers harvesting the souls of the innocent all across Cyrodiil.”

“Would Mankar Camoran have brought about the destruction of Kvatch without Dagon telling him to do so?”

“No, I suppose not. But—” Nim shook her head fiercely and screwed her eyes closed. “He can’t have been a virtuous person before this. He was corrupt then just as he is corrupt now. Good people don’t fall to the Daedra like that. It doesn’t happen unless you grow up worshipping them or you want something from them. Camoran sought Dagon out because he knew he could gain power if he acted in his favor. It’s simple Martin. I know it.”

Martin looked down at her with the shadow of guilt behind his eyes. “I disagree. Many good people err. Some are lost. Some are angry. Mistakes do not make one wicked. But the Daedra do not care if you are _good _or _bad_, as we might say. They care only for how you may serve them.”

“Don’t the Nine do the same?”

Martin raised a brow. Nim raised one right back.

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

“Not all people choose to be good even if they were born into a life where it would be as easy as blinking. Some will never grow from that selfish, child-like nature. I would know.”

“What does that have to do with the Nine?” Martin asked. A strange glimmer had taken to his eyes, and he looked at Nim as though deep in recollection, as though searching.

“These people, they go out of their way to harm. I’ve seen it time and time again. Horrible, unspeakable things that people do to one another for no reason at all. Not for the Daedra. For themselves. Out of pure hatred. Out of pleasure. And the Nine let us do so for their own amusement. They do nothing to stop it, hells, some of those people are exalted and allowed to parade about as though they’re the Divines very gift to Nirn. Think of those in power. They go around claiming they are Gods-fearing men and women of faith, and they are praised. We drink it down because we want to believe that there is a reason why they do these things to us, why we are lesser, poor, and broken while they reign from high above. They are given everything, and the Nine do not care if they are vile, wicked creatures at heart.”

“That is not of the Divine’s making, Nimileth.”

“But why do they sit idly doing nothing to prevent it?”

“The Gods work through us, not for us. There are many forms of evil in this world, and I never claimed the Daedra were the only ones.”

Martin stared at her with eyes of doleful, piercing blue, and Nim knew she had spoken with him about this before. Not just on their trip to Weynon priory, but in Kvatch. Where? At the temple? It had to be there.

When?

Nim wondered if she had met him in her childhood. She only remembered the worst things from her life in Kvatch, and Martin had the kindest eyes she’d ever seen. What a shame that she could not remember them. Had they spoken in passing during Sundas service? The conversation felt so familiar.

“You look unsettled,” Martin said, leaning back in his chair.

“No, I’m just thinking.” Her voice trailed off , and then she shook her head to clear it. “So do you agree with me?”

“About what?”

“That mortal men are prone to evil and that Daedra play but a small role in creating such destruction.”

Martin furrowed his brows, looking exhausted. “No, I don’t. Not completely at least. And I think you’ve failed to see what I’m trying to explain to you in its entirety.”

“Which is?”

“Why the Daedra are dangerous, and why you mustn’t read this book without proper protection.”

Nim pressed a hand to her temple and breathed roughly. “Martin, if that’s all this is about the book, I—”

“Be honest with me,” he cut in, face stern but eyes easy. “Do you understand?”

“Well,” Nim stammered on her reply. “Maybe.”

Martin sighed, but remained persistent. He continued on. “Do you remember Ruma Camoran, the woman you killed in the cavern at Lake Arrius?” He asked her. Nim nodded. “She was not the first of her name. Mankar Camoran killed and ate his first-born daughter after she turned away from Dagon’s path. Her name was also Ruma.”

“He _ate _her?” Nim’s eyes widened at the sheer horror of such a feat, but it did not surprise her in the slightest that Mankar Camoran was capable of such a thing. She had told Martin. He was an evil soul. A horrid man.

“Yes, he wrote about it in his commentaries. Whether the Ruma you met in the cavern stayed with the Mythic Dawn out of fear or because she believed in her father’s teachings, I cannot say, but if I had to guess, I believe that she died thinking she was doing what was right. That is the blinding power of the Daedra.”

“No,” Nim protested. “No, she just… she was born to a monstrous man that subjected her to horrible things. She grew up listening to his mad ravings all her life. She was brainwashed without ever having another choice. It was the only outcome. He did that to her, not the Daedra.”

“Does her indoctrination absolve her of her sins?”

“I don’t know.”

“And if she knew it was wrong but continued knowing the alternative was her own death, would she be wicked too, for wanting to survive?”

Nim fidgeted on her feet. “I don’t know.”

“Do you think if Ruma was born to anyone else, if she grew up away from the influence of Mehrunes Dagon, that she would still have met the end that she did?”

“I don’t know!” Nim ran her hand down the back of her head and screwed her eyes shut. “What does it matter? I don’t understand, Martin. Are you sympathizing with them? I don’t get it.”

“To some degree, yes. I am,” he said and sliced into his loaf of bread. He passed it Nim, offering her the small jar of honey. “If not I, then who?”

Nim choked back her breath, rendered speechless.

Could Martin really think such a way? She couldn’t believe there were people out there so ready to forgive.

If she told him all she had done in her life, could he show her the same compassion? She wondered.

Could she?

* * *

It took Nim a few days before she could break away from Cloud Ruler Temple, not that she had any strong desire to leave, but her duties called her elsewhere. Jauffre had given her a task in the nearby town of Bruma, said she was to investigate the presence of Mythic Dawn spies lingering about in the north. She saw to it quickly. It was a straight-forward task and with the two spies dead, she wondered how many other cultists had managed to escape the Lake Arrius caverns only to fade back into the shadows of their normal, ever day lives. They would be in the cities she passed through, searching for her no doubt.

At least she had taken care of the ones stalking after Martin and watching Cloud Ruler Temple before she left. Good riddance.

But her work was far from over. Next she travelled south, journeying to Leafrot Cave to complete her first dead-drop. Her mark was a Lich, sad excuse for one too. She’d fought worse. Pulling out her letter from Lucien, she read that her next set of orders was hidden in Chorrol. He really expected her to go traipsing across Cyrodiil for these silly things at the drop of a hat, huh? Like Oblivion she would.

Nim set Shadowmere on course for the Imperial City, wondering if the horse knew she was shirking her duties to Sithis. The Council, what little remained of it, would be expecting her soon at the University and she couldn’t delay any further. Mannimarco was being drawn out of his pit, and the longer they waited, the higher a risk of him escaping. By the Divines, she just couldn’t escape these cults no matter where she turned. Cults abound! Murderous cults. Daedric cults. Necromancer cults. Cults for breakfast! Cults for dinner! Every flavor one could ever dream of, and they were all Nim’s, ripe for the picking. 

_One after another_, she thought, shaking her head._ One after another._ She wondered how she wasn’t driven insane by the stress of it all, and then snickered to herself. Perhaps she was mad, and that was precisely why she hadn’t thrown herself off the nearest bridge.

* * *

After stopping by her quarters to check on Schemer and Bok-Xul, Nim headed off to the Arch-mage’s tower in search of Bothiel. That Bosmer always had the latest gossip, and Nim wanted to know what news had come from Silorn, and how it was received by the other mages at the University. She had an upcoming meeting with the Council to discuss their next attack on Mannimarco, and it would suit her if she had some idea of what the sentiments were before it began.

Strolling across campus, Nim wondered if Bothiel knew that the Council planned to promote her among their ranks. With Irlav gone, she was the next most experienced archaeologist at the University, and she had already taken over teaching his classes. It was a fitting replacement. Much more fitting than Nim was as a substitute for Caranya. Then again, both Caranya and Nim lived dark, dangerous double lives that the whole of the guild would revile upon discovery. Perhaps she was not such a poor replacement after all.

She found Bothiel standing in the tower lobby speaking to a well-dressed Dunmer man with his back turned to her. The door to the Orrery was left wide open, a complete anathema to the eccentric Bosmer who treated the Orrery like her own living, breathing offspring, but for whatever reason Bothiel didn’t seem to mind in the moment. Instead, she was staring at the Dark Elf in front of her with such passion as she described the differences between Dwemer cylinders and coherers. 

For a moment, Nim debated leaving, the other Bosmer clearly occupied. She hadn’t seen Bothiel look at anything as fondly as she did Dwemer contraptions, and eventually her curiosity got the best of her. Nim circled around the room, hoping to put herself in Bothiel’s periphery and glimpse the man who she was talking to, and when his profile came in to view, Nim squealed.

She was staring at Fathis Aren.

Interrupted by the shrill sound, Fathis glanced over to Nim. His face lit up like a morning sun.

“Nim! I was worried I had miss you in my visit,” he cheered as Nim ran over to embrace him. “I came as soon as I could make sure Gellius wasn’t going to drink himself into a stupor over the weekend.”

“Oh, you have no idea how much I needed to see you,” she said, squeezing him tightly. “Did you see the Sigil Stone?”

Fathis nodded. “Among other things. Bothiel was just showing me the Orrery. You sure weren’t lying when you said it was a magnificent thing to behold.”

“When I have ever lied to you?” Nim smirked. Releasing him, she took step back and drew out a satisfied breath. “Well, I must see your notes now. Tell me how this stone works. I’ve heard rumors of gate popping up all across the Cyrodiilc wilderness, even some in other provinces. If we’re to close them, it would help to have a mechanistic explanation.”

“Of course. Master Wizard Polus allowed me to use the Council room for my studies. Let’s go up there now. I’ll show you.”

“Oh, may I come too?” Bothiel asked, an innocent little twinkle in her eye.

“I don’t see why not,” Nim said, shrugging in agreement and gesturing for the two elves to follow as she led them to the teleporter. “I didn’t know you were interested in Daedric artifacts.”

“I don’t really think I am,” Bothiel explained. “But I am interested in the mechanics of the things you’ve described within these portals. Spires that shoot out balls of fire! Rooms that close in on you as though they had teeth! I’ve been looking into how the Dwemer used magic to power their centurions and traps. Perhaps there are similarities.”

Nim smiled broadly, hiding a wistful pang behind her eyes. She missed when her days at the University were filled with pure, innocuous curiosity such as these. With questions like _how _and _why_ that didn’t end with _how could such atrocities happen_ and _why me? Why bother going on?_

A whir, a flash of light, and one by one they filed into the council chamber. Raminus was there, sitting at the table and reading through a stack of papers. Most likely the reports from Silorn, Nim thought. At the sound of the teleporter, he looked up, saw Nim and smiled brightly.

“Hi,” he said, his expression pleasantly surprised. “I wasn’t expecting you back so soon. Everything fine up North?”

“For now. I’ll go back when I hear word.”

Raminus nodded, looking not quite as pleased as before but still understanding. “We’re glad to have you back for now. Master Aren has been telling me about this Sigil Stone,” he said, gesturing toward the large mess and clutter on the table with the tip of his quill. “You were right. He is quite an expert in Daedric magic.”

“Who is this Master Aren you speak of?” Fathis teased from across the room. “Just Fathis please. I’m not so old by Dunmer standards.” 

Chuckling to herself, Nim approached the table in the center of the room and found it covered in scrolls of parchment. Scribbled across them were symbols and notes, some in Daedric, most in Cyrodillic. She leafed through them as Fathis took his seat, sweeping aside an assortment of ingredients that she recognized as flora of the Deadlands. Fathis had been taking notes on them too.

Most curious to Nim were the weapons that sat off to the side. They were crafted in such a strange fashion, nothing like any weapon she’d seen in Cyrodiil before, yet at the same time, they were achingly familiar to her. Try as she might, she could not place the memory.

What was going on in that brain of hers these days? It seemed to be filled with nothing but a rolling, glittering fog.

Nim walked toward the pile of weapons, pointing at them as she turned to Fathis.

“What’s all this?” She asked and picked up a fork, of all things. She dangled it before the Dark Elf, and the fork sent a droning _humm _through the air. Shivers prickled along her arms, raising the skin there, and she quickly set it down, shuddering. “Brought all your Daedric trash with you, I see.”

“My Daedric trash?” Fathis laughed. “Darling, this is your Daedric trash.”

Nim looked at him in bewilderment. “Excuse me?”

“You left it in my rooms after we got back from-” He paused throwing a sideways glance at the other mages in the room. “…from the auction. Ahem. That one night. Back in… the Summer.”

“Oh, yes! That auction,” she said, playing along and doing everything in her power to keep from looking like a liar. “Thank you. That was so long ago, it completely slipped my mind to send for them.”

While Raminus and Bothiel exchanged curious looks, Nim inspected the weapons before her more closely. An inexplicable and gnawing sense of dread away at her stomach lining. There was a crude looking staff there etched with runes and adorned with a laquered eye of pale green. It was a horrid thing to look at, but Nim kept right on staring, found herself unable to looked. She picked it up, ran a hand along its length and it felt as though she were stroking her own skin. Immediately, she recognized it. This was _her _staff, the staff of Sheogorath.

Memories rushed to her. The livid skies of Dementia. Garish mushroom trees and the smell of greenmote. Sheogorath fading into her. His laughter, ringing in her ears. Panicked, Nim looked down to the scabbard secured at her waist and wrapped a hand around the hilt of the blade. She pulled it back just a few inches from its sheath and swallowed a gasp.

What minutes, days, weeks ago she was certain was just a simple silver shortsword was no mundane weapon at all. It was silver, but not of metal. Of crystal, like that she’d seen on the Knights of Order who had attacked the Shivering Isles. The blade itself was perfectly symmetrical, no flaw, only a blinding, brilliant shine that reflected her face back to her. She stared into it, into her wide open, purposeless eyes.

She froze. The only alternative was to drop it there, let it clang to the ground, and scream. This was Jyggalag’s sword, and she had been carrying it with her all this time without even recognizing it. How? How could she not have know? Something felt very, very off. She thought of Martin and his reprimands, his warnings. What was happening to her?

Suddenly, the sound of chatter returned to her ears, and she found herself uncertain of how much time had passed with her standing there, clutching the blade and staring into her own reflection. The dread had left her, but she still felt _strange_, again inexplicably so_. _Nim decided it wasn’t worth making a scene over and shook her head. When she returned her attention to the conversation around her, she found Raminus looking at her expectantly, as though a question had just been asked.

“What?”

Raminus started again. “I said, in all the time you’ve known Fathis, why haven’t you encouraged him to gain full entry into the University? We have no one to teach conjuration, especially with Carnya gone.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t trouble Fathis with that,” Nim said, waving her hand quickly through the air as though dismissing the thought. “He’s got enough responsibility down in Bravil without worrying about some snotty, gangly little student trying and failing to summon scamps. Besides,” she smirked, “he’s not much of a teacher. I’ve hardly learned anything from him at all.”

“That’s not true, and you know it,” Fathis pouted.

“You’re right. I’ve hardly learned any _actual_ conjuration from you.”

Bothiel’s eyes narrowed, crinkling at the corners as her face twisted into a sly little grin. “Oh, and just what sort of lessons has he been supplying you with then?”

Nim shot the Bosmer a glare. _That nosy woman_! Nim was still sore about the time that rumor of her alleged affair with Fathis that had spread throughout the University, and by Dibella, Bothiel ate that up like a starved dog! It was mortifying! _Nosy, prying, snooping, Bothiel. _She looked positively giddy now. Nim only scowled.

“Nim and I have a tendency to distract each other, I’m afraid,” Fathis answered for her, smiling coyly. “She’s always rummaging through my business, a million questions this one.”

“Hey!” Nim pointed her finger at him, brows wrinkled. “Don’t act like you don’t love talking about yourself. You’d prattle on from here to Dawnstar if I only let you.”

Turning to face her, Fathis smiled smugly, and they both knew that she would happily let him any day of the week.

Catching the warmth of their shared gaze, Raminus cleared his throat. “Well, nevertheless, it’s nice to meet Nim’s friends. I’ve been getting to know more of them by the day, it seems.”

“Oh, she has more than one?”

Fathis snickered and was immediately met with a light dusting of frost across the face. He gasped loudly, the sound accompanied by a chorus of laughter. Even Raminus chuckled softly from behind his papers.

“_Fetche_r,” Nim sneered back at him. When the Dunmer had cleared the snow from his eyes, she stuck out her tongue, making sure he could see it.

“Well, as you can clearly observe,” Fathis said, wiping the melting snowball from his face and splashing it to the floor. “Nim and I are extraordinarily close.”

“Oh, remarkably,” she added. “Fathis is—"

“If you say I’m like a brother to you, I will vomit.”

Nim rolled her eyes playfully and took a seat at the table beside Raminus. “Gods, Fathis, how typical of you to think me so trite and hackneyed. Now, come on then. Are we going to learn something today or what?”

And with that prelude, Fathis began to explain all he could about the Daedric contraption that Nim had secured from the Oblivion gate at Kvatch. His lecture lasted over an hour, though Nim suspected it would have been much shorter if Bothiel weren’t there asking circuitous questions that always wound back to Dwemer machinery.

With the lecture concluded, Fathis and Bothiel fell once more into meandering chatter, and Raminus stood to his feet. He turned to Nim, drawing a long breath.

“Since you’re here, we might as well round the Council. The soul gem has been returned from Silorn and the sooner we figure out what to do with it the better.”

Nim nodded, approving the idea. “That’s fair. I’ll help Fathis clear up here and then we can meet, maybe ten minutes or so?” She looked to Fathis and then back to Raminus. “We should all go into the city tonight. Have dinner or something. Act like we’re all normal and the world isn’t ending.”

Raminus chuckled, but the sound was weak. “Sure,” he said and rubbed her shoulder gently. “I’ll go get Traven. I’ll see you in a short while.”

Nim walked over to the table and cleared her throat. It felt strange knowing she was a higher rank than both the elves who sat there while simultaneously being neither as intelligent, experienced, or deserving as either one.

“Hey,” she said, interrupting their academic banter. “Bothiel would you mind sending for Tarmeena? The Council is going to make use of this room soon. I’ll help Fathis clear out of here and then I’m volunteering him to keep you company in the lobby. We’ll get dinner afterwards. How’s that?”

“Right away,” she said, a beaming smile, and then left through the teleporter. Fathis stood to his feet too but Nim held onto his wrist.

“Not so fast, you slippery sload,” she said. “I’d like to chat before this meeting starts. Did you get my letters?”

Fathis nodded. With the room clear, he turned to Nim, resting his face in his palm. He stared down at her mischievously. “So it’s true then?”

“What’s true?”

“You’ve shacked up with the Master Wizard?”

“What!” Nim cried out. “Did Bothiel tell you that? Gods the mouth on that woman.”

“I knew there must have been someone keeping you from falling to my wily charms. I didn’t think it would be Raminus Polus of all people. What can I say, you have better taste than I thought.”

“By the Nine, Fathis. I’ve gone through an Oblivion gate, saved the heir of the Empire, infiltrated a Daedric cult, and this is the first thing you ask me about?”

Fathis bounced his brows. “So, it is true, eh?”

“_S’wit_,” she seethed, though her smile was bright and impossibly cheerful. “You’re a lecherous old Telvanni wizard, and that’s all you’ll ever be.”

Fathis bobbed his head at that. “Better than what I could say about you. Say did you really not recognize your own staff back there? You hardly let it out of your sight when you were in the Isles. Hells, I think you slept with it one or two times.”

Nim’s face twisted at that. “No, I really didn’t," she said sheepishly. "Even stranger, I hadn’t even realized I’ve been carrying around the sword of Jyggalag for all this time. I’m not sure what’s the matter with me. Martin, er, the heir I had mentioned in my letter thinks all this Daedric magic can really muddle the mind.”

Fathis laughed, but then stifled the sound when he saw Nim’s drooping expression. Instead, he smiled sympathetically. “Muthsera, I think your mind is more muddled than the hairs in a bezoar. You’re not going to untangle that no matter how much you try. And Daedric magic is dangerous, there’s no doubt about it. Shouldn’t you know this?”

Nim gave him a sideways look. “Gee, a real beacon of hope you are.”

Fathis only shrugged. “What would you do about that muddled little mind of yours anyway, hmm? Ask the Daedric Prince down the road if a little memory loss is normal for the price of immortality?”

“S’not so bad of an idea. Maybe I’ll ask Mehrunes Dagon next time I’m in the Deadlands. Hells, maybe I’ll pay Mephala a visit just for old time’s sake. Perhaps she’d take pity on me, give me a few pointers.”

Fathis’ grin grew crooked, but after a moment his eyes lit up. He reached down to his belt and unclasped a small, sheathed dagger, set it on the table before Nim.

“I’ve brought something for you. Maybe it will cheer you up. After you wrote to me about the cult that attacked Kvatch possibly being tied to Mehrunes Dagon, I did a little investigating of my own.” Fathis unsheathed the dagger. It was made of a dark metal, akin to ebony or obsidian, but as he held it up before the flame of the brazier, no light bounced off its surface. It looked like velvet, impossibly black as though drinking all light that touched it.

“This is Mehrunes Razor,” Fathis explained, and Nim felt her stomach roll. She had read of numerous references to razors in Camoran’s commentaries, but she always assumed they were metaphorical. Mehrunes the Razor was another name for the Prince, after all.

“How did you find this?” she asked.

“An old acquaintance of mine from Morrowind had written to me with concern for a Telvanni mage who had recently gone rogue and left the House. Apparently he sought out this artifact, hoping he could use it topple Imperial rule in Mournhold. I was told he was in Cyrodiil, excavating at fort east of Bravil called Sundercliff Watch, and I confess I sought him out, but only out of hope that I could persuade him to leave Cyrodiil. I knew that even if he succeeded in securing it, the Legion would strike him down.”

“You’re giving this to me? You don’t want it?”

Fathis was taken aback by the question, as though he hadn’t considered the prospect of keeping it at all. He scratched at his head, looking at the dagger with marked uncertainty that bordered on regret.

“Now that you mention it, it is quite beautiful to look at,” he said, but just as quickly shook his head. “No, I think it would serve your purposes far better. I suppose it reminded me Jayred Ice-Veins and the Gatekeeper. What was it that he said, _the best way to kill something is with the bones of its own_?

“And besides I don’t need such a dangerous thing lying about my quarters gathering dust. With all these Mythic Dawn psychopaths and sycophants about, absolutely not. Say these cultists break into my fortress and snatch it from me along with all my other rare goods.”

“Thank you Fathis,” Nim said with a grim smile as she tucked the dagger away, back into its sheath. “It really means so much to have your support. I’ll take it to Martin. He’ll know what we can do with it.”

“Anything Nim. Just don’t keep me in the dark about what’s going. I do that well enough on my own, and I grow bored so easily these days that I’ve taken to counting my own pores for leisure.”

“Oh, Fathis. Don’t worry. You have appeased your Lord today. I was all but ready to smite you down for your insolence earlier,” she smirked. “Thank you again, my dear, faithful servant.”

Fathis recoiled, his nose scrunched and lips turned down into a moue. “I’m no peasant, now. Don’t call me that. You told me I could be Duke of Mania if I wanted to.”

“That still makes you one in my service, hence _servant._”

Fathis grumbled to himself while Nim laughed. They fell into idle chatter as they began gathering the notes, the books, the assortment of Daedric artifacts that were spread across the table. Nim told him of Martin, a measured opaqueness in sharing certain details, of the Mythic Dawn, and of course of the Necromancers.

When the table was almost clear, Nim heard the teleporter thrum and she looked to it, where Raminus appeared amidst the haze of pale, violet light. He stepped down from the platform looking colorless, his eyes wide and faraway.

“Raminus,” Nim said, wringing her hands and walking swiftly to him. “What’s the matter? You look- Raminus, you look sick.”

She looked down to see a Black Soul Gem in his hands. It was large, larger than any gem she had seen before. It must have been the one recovered from Silorn, and as she inspected more closely, she saw that is was shimmering. Inside, a white mist swirled, drifting like sea foam carried in and out on the tides.

The gem was _f__i__lled._

“What is that?” she rasped out.

Raminus looked up at her, his lips quivering.

“Arch-mage Traven is dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun.....
> 
> Also as a note, more Lucien to come in like 1 or 2 chapters. I have A LOT in mind and have been working on it, but it takes so much out of me because Lucien/Nim are such a mess lol. I need to get some action in here to cleanse the palate heehee


	42. Respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Action. Necromancers. Daedric Magic.

**Chapter 42: Respite**

The Council chamber sat full. All five seats occupied. All five seats silent. Fathis had never been dismissed, not much of a point now that he had already heard of the Arch-mage’s death, and Bothiel had been invited to join them when she returned with Tarmeena in tow. It was a strange amalgamation of wizards that could only have been put together by the even stranger workings of fate, or perhaps misfortune. One could hardly tell them apart in these dark days, but it mattered little now. Be it destiny or be it chance that brought them together, the five wizards that gathered in the council room now represented the last hope of saving the guild, and Raminus Polus sat at the head of them all.

All eyes were on him, the new Arch-mage. He sat with his elbows resting against the surface and his hands steepled over his mouth. His eyes were still wide in shock, his face colorless as he stared off into the center of the table, but his mind… his mind was blank as fresh parchment.

Nim was the first among the mages to speak, and when she did, her voice was thin and feeble. “What happens now?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Raminus said softly, the sound muted through the cage of his fingers. “I don’t understand why he did it, how he could have thought this was the only way.”

“He knew something we didn’t,” Tarmeena said.

“Yes, and he gave you that soul gem,” Nim added, passing her eyes over where it lay on the table, her gaze not lingering there for very long. “What did he want you to do with it?”

“He wants us to defeat Mannimarco, to destroy everything that we find within Echo Cave and put an end to the Order of the Black Worm. The Arch-mage said that with this soul gem, any attempt to enthrall us will be fruitless.” Raminus stared at the cursed gem in front of him. The way it shimmered in the candlelight made his skin crawl. “Hannibal Traven put his own soul in there to protect us. Why? Why would he do it?”

“He must have known there was no other way,” Tarmeena said, her eyes cast downward. “But he trusted you Raminus. He left the guild in your care. Whatever you say we should do, we shall. The future rests on your shoulders.”

Raminus felt a knot in his stomach tighten, squeeze, constrict until it was a rolling steel ball grinding down everything in its path. Traven had said the same thing to him, _the future rests on your shoulders,_ and with the man’s final words, he had appointed Raminus Arch-mage.

_Arch-mage_.

It couldn’t be. Raminus blinked, hoping he’d open his eyes to find himself back in bed, that this was all but a nightmare. Only in idle daydreams had he ever claimed such a title, but Raminus never desired it. Not truly. Not if it meant that Hannibal Traven was now gone forever.

Everyone around him had accepted it readily. He had shown them the letter from Traven, the one that explained why his sacrifice needed to be made, why Raminus was the best suited to take his place, but even after reading it over and over, even after he had burned the words into his mind, he did not understand.

_Why?_

“I should delay no longer,” a voice said, and Raminus was surprised to find it was his. It was a clear, firm sound, a resonance that reflected nothing of what he felt inside. No, inside he found only grief and grim uncertainty. The weight of Magnus settled in his chest.

“I’ll come with you,” Nim said. She looked up to him with quick, bright eyes. “You cannot face him alone.”

Tarmeena nodded from across the table. “Me too,” She said, her expression anxious but earnest.

“I suppose I might as well join, right?” Fathis added with a casual shrug and turned to the Arch-mage. “You can’t really afford to turn down help, now can you?”

“You don’t need to do this, Fathis,” Raminus told him. “You arrived with inopportune timing, that’s all. You’ve no responsibility to aid us.”

Fathis brushed the comment aside and clucked his tongue. “Nonsense, I think my timing was most opportune, and I’ll take any excuse to break away from castle patronage.”

Raminus gave a reluctant nod, and the room fell quiet once more. All but Bothiel had volunteered, and the Wood Elf was now fidgeting quite nervously in her seat. “Don’t look at me,” she said, raising her hands up in defense. “I’m an archaeologist. I dig things up, take them apart, and put them back together. I don’t know how to fight.”

Raminus shook his head, bracing it against the flat of his palm. “Bothiel’s right. There’s no sense in sending us all out to our doom. Julianos forbid the worst happens at Echo Cave. Who would remain at the University to oversee the aftermath then? No, I will see to it myself. It- it is what Hannibal had wanted.”

Nim shook her head. Her hair whipped around her in a blur. “Don’t be foolish! If it were me who were sent out there, I know you wouldn’t let me go alone.”

Raminus sighed and looked at her sufferingly. It was true. If the positions were reversed, he would be doing anything and all in his power to prevent her from leaving. In fact, that was what he was trying to do right now.

What he had failed to tell the Council was that before Hannibal Traven died, he had not just asked but _entreated_ Raminus to send Nim out to Echo Cave. Traven had told him that Nimileth was and always had been their best chance at defeating Mannimarco, but _Raminus _was the Arch-mage now. It was his duty to protect the guild, to protect Nim. His duty alone.

“This is different," he said. "This may be our only chance at stopping him. You cannot—”

“Like Oblivion I can’t!” She shouted. “Watch me try! I’m going, Raminus. You’ll have to tie me up if you want to stop me. Doesn’t matter one bit that you’re my superior now, because I’ve been here since the beginning of this mess, and I’m going to see it through to the end.”

“Nimileth, please,” he began, eyes pleading. “This isn’t debatable.”

“I know,” she snapped and shot him a stern glare. “I’m going.”

Before Raminus could manage out another word of protest, Fathis spoke up from beside him. “I know my word has no weight here, but I agree with Raminus—”

“Now just a minute here,” Nim blurted out, pointing a finger at the Dunmer across the table and leaning so far forward she nearly fell off of her stool. “I’m not going to sit idly by while—”

“I agree that we can’t all throw ourselves into the fire,” Fathis cut back in, punctuating each his words with an equally sharp glare. Nim silenced herself as Fathis finished his thought. She settled back into her seat looking more than a little flushed. Fathis continued. “Seeing as I’m not even a member on the Council, I think my loss would be the least sorely missed of all. Raminus, you’re the Arch-mage now. Your safety is vital to the future of the guild. You shouldn’t risk going. I’ll go with Nim. We will secure Echo Cave.”

With the endorsement from Fathis, Nim turned to Raminus with round, eager eyes. “You know this is the best way. You know it.”

Raminus did not answer. The room grew still, and he sat basking in that heavy, sorrowful silence. He knew better than to argue, for in his heart he knew his power alone would not be enough to face the King of Worms. Traven had known it too. The guild needed Nim as much as he wished it wasn’t so.

“Then we go at dawn,” he said, rising. “The three of us and no more. Tarmeena, I leave you in charge in my absence, and should anything happen, you will take my rank.”

The Argonian gasped, composed herself, and nodded.

“Now, if you will all excuse me. I need to be alone for a moment.”

Raminus left for the teleportation pad and felt the weight of all eyes upon him. He turned and met them as the runes beneath his feet hummed awake. They all stared, a mix of fear, confusion, shock, but all of them hopeful, and all of them depending upon him.

Violet light engulfed his body, and when it dissipated, he stepped down into the lobby. He left the tower, left the gates of the University, and walked along the City Isle with no company but his own breath and the call of the brisk evening air.

He walked for hours, hoping to clear his mind again, hoping he could return to that parchment-blank void. He did not.

* * *

Morning came too quick, came too slow. A few hours of dark, dreamless sleep and Nim was on the road again with her blades strapped to her side and her staff of Sheogorath cutting through the air above her. She felt compelled to take it with her this time, as though leaving without it was as unthinkable as leaving without one of her own limbs. The urge had startled her at first, but now with the coarse wood pressed firmly against her back, the fear was quelled, and the weight of it simply felt _right. _

But it still made no sense. Her mind swam with questions, with doubt, but for the time being, she pressed them from her mind and focused on her journey north alongside Fathis and Raminus. They travelled to Echo Cave. To Mannimarco.

The journey was quiet. Only Fathis seemed to be up for conversation, and Nim entertained him as much she could, the scattered, casual banter a preferable alternative to the white noise of her spiraling thoughts. She knew she should be afraid to face whatever lie in wait for them there, but she wasn’t. She was worried for Raminus. He had watched the Arch-mage kill himself and trap his own soul in that cursed gem. Now the future of the guild was thrust upon him. All night, he had remained silent and even now as they drew closer and the rich, earthy soil of the Heartlands yielded to sheets of snow, he was quiet.

They broke off the Silver Road and spent another few hours hiking through barren flatland, when at last Raminus spoke

“There’s a man up ahead,” he whispered, halting them in their tracks as he pointed off into the distance. “About one hundred or so feet away, behind that rocky outcrop.” 

Both Nim and Fathis refreshed their detect life spells. Fathis nodded. “I see him.”

Nim frowned, finding no aura in her vision except the nearby larks skipping from shrub to shrub and the two men beside her. Mysticism never had been her strong suit.

“We should probably discuss a plan,” she said. “Perhaps he’s one of them.” She turned to Raminus. Fathis did too.

The Imperial bounced his eyes among them, then realizing they were waiting on him, furrowed his brow. “Talos sake, I haven’t a clue.”

She squeezed his arm tightly and hoped it provided even an ounce of reassuring comfort. “Yes, you do. You must.”

“Nimileth,” he breathed out roughly. “I don’t.” Raminus pinched the bridge of his nose and stared down at his feet, clearly disappointed with himself. “Mannimarco is a lich who has already defeated death once. I am walking into this blind.”

“Well, it’s a good thing Nim and I are here then,” Fathis grinned. “We’ve already defeated Lorgren Benirus. That’s one lich we’ve survived.”

Nim nodded and bit her tongue, not mentioning her recent excursion to Leafrot Cave. That was two liches she had survived, and she intended for Mannimarco to be the third.

Raminus sighed softly. He stared off toward the prominence of the cavern, looking pensive and severe. “Okay,” he said. “Then I have no reason to be anything but assured that we will make it through this successfully. Nim, you will stay back with your bow. They’ve seen you too many times. You’ll be recognized and we don’t want to cause too much of a disturbance. Fathis, do you prefer to stay ranged or do you want to approach?”

“I’m fine with either,” the Dunmer said. “As soon as things go awry I’ll send a Dremora to get up close and personal. He’ll do more damage with a mace than I’d do with mine.”

Raminus nodded. “I’ll approach then. The two of you will guard my back.”

“Can’t I just shoot him on sight?” Nim asked, the question genuine and her tone frighteningly blasé.

“Well I- I suppose.” After another moment of thinking, Raminus returned to Nim, shaking his head with another disappointed grimace. “Why am I giving you orders anyway? You have more experience fighting necromancers than Fathis and I combined.”

“Hey, speak for yourself,” Fathis said and threw him a sideways look.

“More than me for certain. I think it best that I defer to the experts.”

Nim pushed her feet around in the frost and began to string her bow. “I kind of liked it when you were taking the lead,” she said, her eyes playful and voice insincerely meek.

Raminus flushed a soft pink and scratched at the back of his head. Fathis rolled his eyes. Hard. “B’vehk,” he groaned. “The two of you will have all the time in the world for simpering and blushing after this. Now what happens when we reach Mannimarco?”

Nim, still staring down at her bow, offered up the only plan that came to mind. “We’ll want to watch out for dispel and reflect augmentations, and he’s probably heavily enchanted to resist our spells too. I doubt any one of our attacks will work well on the offensive. Honestly, I think it best I try to stab him in the head while the two of you work to distract him.”

“Stab him?” Raminus blanched. “The King of Worms? You’re… going to just stab him?”

Nim nodded enthusiastically. “In the head, in the heart. Maybe I’ll disembowel him. He’s trapped in a mortal body now. A blade will pierce him just fine.”

Raminus looked up to Fathis, as though seeking counsel. The Dark Elf only bobbed his head in agreement.

“It’s true,” he said, shrugging a shoulder. “A blade will pierce him just fine.”

Raminus wrinkled his brows slightly, but the glimmer in his eyes was ready and driven. “Alright then," he said. "I’ll stay back with ranged spells and offer you and Nim protection. Likewise, I’ll handle any of the undead he raises on the periphery. Fathis, you can distract him with your summons and keep his attention away from Nim.”

“And I’ll stab him.”

Raminus looked at her, doing a poor job at hiding his concern. “Yes. And you’ll stab him.”

With their plan in place and her bow at the ready, Nim fell into her invisibility cloak and circled around the outcropping. It felt strange to be taking orders during combat, especially from a man as inexperienced as Raminus. Then again, she had basically told him everything that needed to be done, and he listened. He was a smart man for that. Orders from the Arch-mage or not, she likely would have done what she thought best anyway.

At the entrance of the cave stood a man in necromancer robes, the skull and crossbones insignia unmistakable even from where she stood a good distance away. _They sure love to feel special in their little cult uniform_, Nim thought humorlessly. At least it made recognizing them easier. She nocked her arrow and let it soar, striking the robed man squarely in the back of the skull. He slumped over, his aura dimming, and with the entrance clear the trio proceeded inside.

The air within the cave was cool, damp, and smelled strongly of fetid decay. After all her time spent in Necromancer lairs, it was hard for Nim to expect anything less. They wound their way down, chamber by chamber, dispatching any who crossed their path. Necromancers patrolled the tunnels, some with their summons, some alone, but neither scenario proved much difficulty between the three of them. Nim had tried her best to retain some element of surprise during their descent, but the detection magic wielded by their opponents made it damn near impossible. Not to mention the mages at her side did not seem remotely familiar with the art of subtlety.

They rounded another bend. Another _crash_. Another Necromancer sent hurdling across the wall by one of Fathis’ atronachs. Vaulting aside to dodge an ice blast, Nim watched as Raminus dashed out in front of her, his form engulfed in a dazzling flash as his lightening splintered the air. The room sizzled. The walls shook. Nim had hardly the time to draw her blade before the chamber was emptied. She looked around at the dead bodies on the floor and then to her companions. They stood with their hair wired and standing in all directions, charged with excess electricity, and she gave a small frown. Delving further into the bowels of the cavern, Nim quickly discarded all hope of reaching Mannimarco discreetly.

At last, they came to the final flexure and stood before a molded wooden door. Peeking through it, Nim spied a vast chamber, across which damp stalactites draped and obscured her view of the central rise of black rock. Nim pressed further and craned her neck, hoping to glimpse what lie beyond.

The central platform was lit by the dying flame of scattered braziers, and against the furthest wall of the cave hung tapestries marked with the sigil of the Black Worm. A tall, robed Altmer stood before them, alone and unguarded. Staring. He raised his arm in her direction as though beckoning them in, and Nim knew it could only be one person.

“He’s there,” she said, pulling back. “It’s Mannimarco.”

Reaching over her, Raminus pushed the door open a crack to look for himself. “Why is he just standing there?”

“He thinks he looks awfully composed and intimidating,” Nim said and scrunched her nose. “They always do that, wait for you to come to them. He’ll want to give you a little speech, I bet. Talk to you before he attacks.”

Raminus furrowed his brows looking more angry now than worried. He squeezed a fist down at his side, and wisps of smokes curled upward from his fingers. “What should I say to him?”

“Nothing,” Nim said curtly. “Don’t indulge him. He sees us as nothing more than flesh to rend. Why should we look at him any differently?”

Raminus hesitated, opened his mouth to respond but shut it quickly and frowned. “I suppose you’re right. After all he’s done to our guild members…” His voice trailed off.

Nim exchanged glances with Fathis and the two of them looked out the cracked door. A narrow bridge had been carved in the stone floor of the cavern, and beneath it lay a moat of still, dark water. Once they passed over it there would be nowhere to run other than behind them, other than to flee.

“I’ll go first,” Nim said and unsheathed her blade. She stepped forward only to be halted by Raminus as he gripped her by the shoulder.

“Nimileth, if this is the last time—”

“No,” she snapped at him. “It’s not. I won’t let you say it. You don’t see Fathis and I exchanging goodbyes. Neither will we.”

Raminus stared down at her grimly.

“But if—”

“No.”

Raminus continued to hold her, to stare down at her until she broke away from his grasp. She met his gaze, her eyes firm, and then she kissed him. In the next moment, she was gone.

* * *

The cavern was a whirlwind of searing flames and forks of lightning. Everywhere she looked, something was on fire, something was singed. Groans of the undead echoed against the walls, beating against her eardrums, but no matter how many she downed they kept rising. From the chamber entrance, more poured in. All the necromancers they had defeated had been turned to thralls in the blink of an eye. They should have known what Mannimarco was capable of. They should have known.

Across the chamber, near the door, Raminus and Fathis were taking the brunt of Mannimarco’s attacks, and though they deflected most of his sorcery away from them, they were obviously struggling. The undead came in waves, rushing toward them from all sides, and at any moment a choice had to be made whether to strike back against the onslaught or dispel one of Mannimarco’s hexes. The Necromancer, meanwhile, remained unscathed.

They had underestimated him. Even while fully aware that he was one of most dangerous mortals to have walked Nirn, even while fearing the horrible feats of his power, they could not have imagined how strong he truly was. The necromancers they had fought before, even the liches, were but ants compared to the King of Worms. He was a monster among men, and his willpower was endless.

How long had they been fighting? Nim’s body ached. Her veins pulsed. She had given up on her illusion long ago and had been using all of her magicka to focus her defensive wards as she pushed Mannimarco closer to edge of the rocky rise. Even while she was invisible, she knew he could see her, not her physical form but her aura, and though his golden eyes remained locked on the men across the room, he knew when she was stalking, when she was planning to strike. Whenever she got close, he pulled away, sent out a burst of spiraling fire to repel her. She dodged, then she struck out again. Slowly, she was pressing him to the edge, forcing his back to the dark water, but every time she closed in, he sent his thralls for her. They distracted her long enough to push her back, making all her previous efforts fruitless.

And across the chamber it was only getting worse.

How many of the undead did he command? It was a horde. No. It was an army. Mannimarco was must have had the cavern prepared for months. Bodies had been buried beneath the earth, in the walls, tucked away in crypts that had been concealed behind fallen rock, all awaiting this moment. Nim had to stop it soon. She had to reach him, had to end him before her companions became overwhelmed.

A guttural shriek split the air, and Nim whipped her head around to see Raminus doubling over, the robes at his shoulder torn and flesh bloodied. Rotting hands tangled in his hair and dragged him to the ground, out of sight, but she could still hear him screaming. Fathis raced toward him, his hands alight in orange flame, and the hope in Nim’s heart sputtered and died when the undead rushed him and sent his body crashing against the wall.

_No!_

Her throat clenched as though crushed by a fist, and even if she wanted to yell out, she could not summon the sound.

_It can't end here! Not like this!_

Nim reached for the staff on her back without thinking, and held it in her hands as though it were an extension of her own body. She swung it through the air, the wood whistling, and pointed it at Mannimarco, uncertain of what would happen but knowing that she needed to use it here and now.

The crystalized eye stared at her from the end of the staff, and she met it feeling alive like she’d never felt before. She willed whatever Daedric blood she possessed to come forth, _to spark this staff now_.

Nothing happened.

Nim forced out a scream. She squeezed the rough wood in her hands so tightly she felt it splintering and embedding beneath her palm. Again she willed it to work. She cursed it. She cried out, and then—

A voice, clear and toneless filled her head. It shook all thought from her mind, as though wiping a slate clean.

_HALT,_ it said. It was Sheogorath’s voice, and it echoed, the sound ringing into the cavernous spaces of her skull. It was Sheogorath’s voice and as it phased out of her head and into the realm of Nirn, she realized it was _hers._ Her voice calling out from the ether, her voice blending into the resonance of her mind, and then it was all around her, filling the cave.

A blinding light burst from the staff, spreading to the perimeter of the chamber walls and surging upward to the ceiling. When her vision cleared, she saw that everyone around her was frozen still. Fathis, Raminus, the undead, even Mannimarco. For a moment she stood stunned, eyes wide and unblinking, but her muscles screamed into action, and she ran for the Necromancer, staff dropped and blade drawn.

He was twitching now, trying to break free from the Daedric binding that the staff had woven, and Nim knew her time to act was dwindling. She plunged her blade under his ribs, driving it up, up, up until she felt his bone stabbing against her fist. She withdrew, aiming now for his throat, and suddenly Mannimarco’s hands were around her wrists, pushing her away.

He was weakened. His hands trembled as he tried to dispel the magical snare, but with every second his grip grew stronger. Around her, the sound of shuffling, of bodies moving awake against stone and dirt began to build. Nim forced her blade up toward Mannimarco’s throat but he fought back, and with her last surge of energy, she lunged forward, plunging both of them off the edge of the rock and into the frigid water below.

* * *

Nim came to shaking, the sensation of ice running through her veins. Her eyes flickered open. She was in a cave, the room calm against her ear but the air heavy on her skin.

“She’s awake, Fathis,” a frantic voice said. “She’s awake.” Warm hands probed her, tugging at her armor and pulling her loose, wet hair away from her face. “Can you hear me? Are you bleeding?”

“I-I’m so cold.”

Nearby, she heard footsteps shuffling forward. She tried to sit up, but the hands gently guided her back down, so instead, she lay still, forcing herself to remember how she arrived here, wet on a cavern floor.

“She’s speaking, that’s a good sign,” a second voice said, gruff and Dunmeri.

Nim squinted up and saw two faces, soot covered, blood stained, and wild about the eyes. She knew them. She knew that she knew them, but their names were a vague haze filling her mouth. The longer she stared, the more they became something tangible, and slowly she felt the words precipitate on the tip of her tongue.

“I know you. I—”

“Shh,” the Imperial hushed her.

“But I’m cold,” she stammered out, teeth chattering. “I’m so cold.”

“Gods, she must have lost a lot of blood before we healed her.”

The Dunmer frowned, eyes beginning to look worried. “Strange I didn’t see any large wounds. I’ll get my pack. Hopefully the potions didn’t break.”

As the Dunmer walked off, the Imperial leaned in closer. He was kneeing beside her, his green eyes roaming over her anxiously as he searched for tears in her armor. “Nimileth, you must lie still, and stay awake now,” he said.

“No,” she mumbled pushing his hands down. She could hear her own teeth clinking against each other in her mouth. Her entire body trembled. Why was she so cold? Why was she wet? Blinking up at the Imperial man, she felt the fog begin to clear, her head grow lighter. It was Raminus. That’s who was in front of her, and they were still in Echo Cave. She rolled her head to the side, watched as Fathis rummaged through a pack and pulled forth a few assorted potion vials.

Nim tried to sit up again, this time more forcefully.

“Don’t move,” Raminus told her, the words firm but his voice gentle. “We need to check for signs of injury.”

“Raminus, I’m so very cold.” The words shivered in her throat. “I need to get out of this armor, please. The water was freezing, and Gods, do I need a fire.”

His eyes went wide with both surprise and relief as she spoke with sudden clarity.

“You’re okay,” he whispered out breathlessly, and then quickly sat her up. He wrapped and arm around her shoulders, let a pulse of magical heat wash over her. “You killed him, Nim. The King of Worms is dead. I was so worried that maybe-- maybe he’d gotten you too.”

Though warmed by his spell, Nim remained shivering. She leaned into his arms, and slowly raised her own to embrace him too. “Oh Raminus, he’s really dead. And you're safe. I- I can't believe it.”

They sat like that as seconds lingered into minutes, frightened, yet relieved, the warmth of their blood and the cold of dripping water shared between them.

“And I’ll just stand over here holding myself, I suppose,” Fathis called from the other end of the cavern as the glass vials clinked in his arms.

Slowly, Nim stood to her feet, and Fathis did not remain holding himself for very long.

* * *

Later Nim and Raminus sat together in her quarters. The walls were bare, the furniture sparse, but at the window was a garden of green foliage contained within chipped ceramic planters. Beside them, a fire danced in the hearth, filling the small sitting area of mismatched sofa chairs and end tables with a glowing warmth. Bok-Xul had already claimed her favorite sleeping spot, and Nim didn’t dare get rid of the armchair even though she found the upholstery to be a complete eyesore on the room. Small comforts were becoming increasingly hard to find at a time like this, and so she let it stay

Nim, however, lay curled up on the couch, leaning into Raminus as he read through another draft of his address to the Elder Council. He needed to inform them of the shift in appointments now that Arch-mage Traven had passed on his title, and he’d been working tirelessly on his reports ever since they arrived back from Echo Cave. Nim didn’t know how he could do it, spend all day glued to his desk, quill in hand. He’d already written up their earlier findings from their investigations into the Order of the Black Worm and was now detailing the downfall of Mannimarco. All of the Mages Guild would learn of it tomorrow. Soon all of Tamriel would know too.

Nim watched as he read, scribbled, read some more, his brow furrowed in concentration. He always looked so serious when he worked. She imagined he’d give himself wrinkles with all that furrowing and worrying he did.

“I can’t believe it’s over,” she said, whispering into the fabric of his robes. Raminus merely sighed

“It’s not really over.” He was still staring at his papers, scratching off a sentence and scribbling in the revisions. “For me the work has just begun, and it’s certainly far from over for you.”

“Mannimarco is over.”

“Yes, Mannimarco is over.”

“Tomorrow all of Cyrodiil will know that you defeated him and saved the guild. You’ll be a hero.”

Raminus let out a sound that sounded somewhere between a chuckle and a scoff. “I didn’t defeat him, Nim, not really.”

“But you should say that you killed him. It will make the transition to Arch-mage much smoother for everyone else if they believe that you did.”

Raminus looked down at her, brows now furrowed not in concentration but in confusion. He returned his quill to the inkwell on the end table and set his papers down in his lap.

“But I did not defeat him,” he said.

“I couldn’t have killed him without you or Fathis there.”

“And so I will explain it as such.”

“Raminus,” she said, tugging on his sleeve. “You said you were worried that they wouldn’t take you seriously. The Elder Council and the rest of the Guild will accept your authority much easier if you—”

“No,” he said, cutting her off. “I will not start my tenure as Arch-mage on a lie and take credit for something I didn’t do. Hannibal Traven sacrificed himself to keep us safe while we fought the King of Worms, but we both know you delivered the blow that ended him. I will say that I was there when he was defeated. That is all.”

“Say you helped defeat him at least.”

Raminus cocked a brow. “Did I?”

“Of course you did. Don’t you remember ordering me around, all bossy like?”

“Nim,” he said giving her a severe look that she knew he had forced. She smiled back at him, cheeks pink in the warmth of the room, and his features softened too.

“Oh, just say it was you. They need a hero at a time like this. It would benefit them most if it was also the Arch-mage.”

Raminus brushed her bangs back over her ear. “Perhaps it should be you then.”

“What should be me?”

“You as the hero. You as the Arch-mage.”

Nim flinched away from his touch and lifted herself off the cushion, eyes wide and lips pulled into a bloodless line. She stared him down and then laughed so hard tears pooled and glistened before her eyes all while Raminus looked on in bewilderment.

“Oh, you are so funny, my Raminus,” she choked out, still sniffling and catching her breath. “Too funny.”

“And why not?” he asked, perplexed. “Whether it is you are I who is promoted to Arch-mage, we would still be the youngest to hold such a title. Both of our appointments would be highly scrutinized.”

“Are you serious right now?”

“What skills do I possess that make me any more qualified than you?” He asked, and Nim looked at him as though he were speaking another language. “It’s just a question.”

“Tell me you made that suggestion as a joke before I so much as pretend to entertain the thought.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’m speaking purely in hypotheticals.”

Nim studied him for a long moment, scanning over those premature stress lines and looking quite concerned for his sanity. “You know I haven’t the temperament for it,” she mumbled out. “I hate paper-pushing, and I hate people pleasing even more. I speak out on impulse and I step on toes whenever I find them sticking out.” She scratched the back of her head and squinted off into the fire, concentrating on her answer for far longer than she should be. _Her_ as the Arch-mage? It was as preposterous as any of the other titles she held, and the fact that Raminus was humoring such a thought made her feel as though she were in a fever dream. 

“Besides," she continued. "I don’t command audiences the way authority should. People don’t care about what I say. They never have, and I don’t blame them. I rarely have much good to say anyway.”

“That’s not true,” Raminus told her. “You have good judgment, and you act on it with initiative. Remember, you were the one who discovered the Shade of the Revenant, and all along, you suspected a traitor sitting among one of the five seats. If the rest of Council had been listening to you, and if we hadn’t been deceived by Caranya, we might have gotten to Mannimarco much earlier.”

“And I still wasn’t able to convince anyone besides you,” she reminded him. “So what good does that do? Traven only listened because you asked him too. Like I said, people don’t really notice me. It’s the way things have always been. Most of the time, it’s the way I prefer things to be too. Lets me retain my freedom.”

“Your freedom to do what?”

“To avoid responsibility.”

Raminus shook his head, his smile small and gentle. “You make that claim, but I’ve never once seen you turn down an assignment. Why, just last week you were trying to join the battlemages at Silorn, and Traven wouldn’t let you.”

“Hmm,” Nim mused. “Why then do I feel like such a reluctant hero?”

“I don’t know, but it’s hardly true,” he said with a slight shrug and then settled back against the couch, shoulders relaxing. He combed his hair idly with his fingers and released a deep breath. “Perhaps it’s because you came to the University with the goal of attaining a proper education and after a year you have yet to receive anything remotely close. I'm afraid I've lead you horribly astray.”

“Well, it’s true,” Nim smirked, meaning to tease him, but he responded with a guilty, little frown. “But maybe I will have time to return to my studies now. Maybe I can take classes in the spring quarter.” Raminus half turned to her looking pleasantly curious, and she quickly shook her head. “No, how absurd a thought. A Council member taking classes alongside the students? Gods. As if everyone needs to know how unskilled I truly am.” She scoffed at herself looking mildly disgusted. After some time, her expression mellowed and she looked up to Raminus with the same playful grin from before. “Maybe I’ll take your alteration class next fall.”

“Oh?”

“I’ll sit in the back row and make googly eyes at you all lecture long.”

Raminus did not reply to her threat, though his cheeks flushed a faint pink. “You are plenty skilled, Nim,” he assured her. “People take note of that quickly.”

She slumped against him once more and stared off toward the fire. “They take notice of it when they want something from me, not because they care what I have to say or find me worthy of respect.”

“I respect you,” he said, frowning. “I admire you, and so do many here at the University. You’re too world-weary for someone so young. It’s frightening. Not everyone has ill intentions.”

“I don’t know,” she said softly and quite resigned. “You learn the patterns after a while of being treated the same way. I haven’t seen enough exceptions to convince me to discard the previous conclusion.”

A pause. She looked up at him, chewing her lower lip then started again. “You on the other hand are a kind, brilliant man who people _want _to listen to. They trust you. Not to mention you don’t mind listening when someone else speaks. You take advice and defer to others when you know you are uninformed on the matter. That makes a wise leader, and it sure as all hells is not something I’m very good at. Plus you love to read and file reports. You’re perfect for the position.”

Raminus wrapped an arm around her shoulder, rubbing small tender circles as he bent down to kiss the top of her head. “I know that you have no desire to be the Arch-mage,” he said. “I just wanted to hear your thoughts. For what it’s worth, I believe you could do it. If you actually wanted it, I think you could lead this guild just as well as I could.

“Yeah?” She said questioningly, then snickered to herself. “We could make it work, the two of us. How about this- I can be the brains of this operation, and you can be the pretty face?”

“Okay,” Raminus chuckled into her hair. “And since you’re the smart one, you can read through this next draft for me when I finish.”

They fell back into their previous activities, Raminus with his paperwork, and Nim with losing herself in the grout of the stone bricks. She thought of her staff, which sat within view, just at the desk against the wall. It seemed to be looking at her, waiting for her to take it back into her hands. She still didn’t understand what had happened in the cave or how she knew it would come to save her in the end. Had it really frozen everyone? Did it stop time? She wasn’t sure thinking about it would serve her any good. Who really understood the Daedra and their tools, let alone the Prince of Madness?

A gust of wind rattled the windowpane, sending Schemer darting away from his perch upon the sill and toward the safety of the people sitting in the room. Nim watched as he nestled up before the crackling fire, comforted by its heat. Poor rat wasn’t used to life above ground, and curious as he was, weather still seemed to startle him.

She rolled onto her back and continued staring off into the distance, beyond the wall, beyond the physical space containing her until the only thing anchoring her to her room was the sound of Raminus’ quill scratching away. Even with the Mages Guild secure, there was still so much she needed to do. For the Empire. For the Blades up at Cloud Ruler Temple. For Martin.

Her mind wandered to him often in the quiet hours, trying to place the image of his kind blue eyes within her memory. His preaching was seeping into her thoughts more and more. Questions of the Daedra consumed her. Questions of her cursed soul. She didn’t like the places those thoughts took her. And Martin, did he really think she was a good person just because she was willing to aid him and the Blades? Was that all it took to convince the world that she wasn’t wicked? Nim wondered how many others she had fooled the same way, just by offering her helping hand. She gazed up to Raminus, felt her heart clench.

His eyes flickered back and forth across his papers, moss green and shimmering under dark lashes, so focused and clear they looked like glass. What would he say to her if he knew about the way she had lived before he met her? If he knew about her life with the priestesses of Mephala, brewing skooma for the Renrijra Krin. Those days seemed ages ago, petty and child's play compared to what she was now. Even her time in the thieves guild, Raminus might be able to forgive. She was a child then. She had few other options, at least that’s what she told herself.

But now, with what she had done as a member of the Dark Brotherhood? Now, after all the times she had lied to keep it secret - If Raminus knew, would he force her out of the guild, turn her in? And how long did she have until he learned the truth—

_No. _Her heart lurched in her chest. It couldn’t happen. She wouldn’t let it. If he knew it would be the end. He wouldn’t speak to her. He wouldn’t even look at her, and how long then until he stopped loving her completely?

The thought made Nim feel like she was shrinking. The longer she stared at him, the more she wondered when she’d become so small she blinked out of existence. She stared down at her clenched fists, at the silver ring he had given her months ago. The emerald inset twinkled back at her, her reflection even smaller in the dancing light of the fire.

What had she made of her life? All this new power she wielded and for what? Everything was still spiraling away from her.

She thought of Lorise, and the pain of their last encounter felt like a rock grinding her sternum to meal. She had checked the arena bulletin and found that Lorise hadn’t fought for some weeks now. Where was she, with Mathieu? What could Nim do to make amends?

She should have chased her into the darkness that night, made her listen to what Vicente had told her before he died. Maybe then Lorise would understand. Maybe then she could forgive. Nim wondered if Lorise would ever be able to look at her without being reminded of his death, and another stab of pain struck her so sharply she felt her insides flay open, bared to the heat of the room.

She would rot here if she could, beside Raminus. Rot here and die miserably but momentarily content. Maybe. She rolled onto her side and covered her face with her hands, pressed incipient tears back into her eye sockets. She curled up against the back of the couch and wondered how long until she made herself disappear if she could only squeeze herself tight enough.

In the throes of that crushing weight, she thought of Lucien.

Gods, why did he invade her thoughts? Even at a time like this when he should be the furthest thing from her mind, he twisted his way through the haze of her skull, scraping his fingers across the underside of the bone like a bevel-edged chisel. He was always there, tap, tap, tapping away, knocking against her forebrain under the pretense of waiting to be invited inside. But he was always there, welcome or not, with the haunting persistence of a starved ghost, the permanence of shadow, gone one moment, back the next.

When would she see him again, she wondered? And she hated herself for wondering. She dreaded the thought, felt her innards coil up and pull taut. She didn’t want to see him. She wanted never to see him again, and yet, she found herself wondering.

“Will you stay here now?”

Nim dipped her head backward to peer up at Raminus. His eyes were still on his report.

“I am here now.”

“I meant at the University. Or will you go back to Anvil now that we’ve entered a period of stability?”

She thought about it silently. She would stay through the appointment of the new Council members, Fathis and Bothiel, and she’d need to be present as their new responsibilities were explained and decided upon. With so much change among the Council’s seats, it was likely there would be a series of meetings to review the previously established policies and restrictions, hopefully with less argument than the sessions she had sat in on in the past.

But afterwards? She didn’t really need to stay. With the Necromancer threat extinguished, the Council had fewer reasons to be in session. It wasn’t common for a Council member to live so far from the University, but Raminus hadn’t asked anyone to move, in fact he told Fathis he didn’t need to. It didn’t stop the Dunmer from resigning his position as Bravil's Court Wizard. Truthfully, he seemed relieved to be letting it go.

Still, there was nothing preventing Nim from returning to the Gold Coast. She could move all her things back to Benirus Manor, back to the solitude of Anvil if she wanted to. She wasn't sure she did.

“I will be here as I’m needed,” she said.

Raminus flipped a page. “I think Cyrodiil needs you more than Council does right now,” he said. “If you need to go, I only ask that you tell me when and where, whatever information you’re at liberty to provide.”

Nim’s eyes went wide with surprise. “You don’t think it would be irresponsible of me not to stay? I’m still one of the seats, and with this Oblivion crisis, I doubt the stability will last long.”

“I’m sure you’ll make it work. You always have.”

A brief pause. Nim worked her hair into a braid as the silence grew.

“Do you want me here to help you?” she asked. “I can stay.”

Raminus laughed softly, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. “You don’t need my permission to stay, Nim.”

“But if you want me to, I will.”

“I’m not going to order you to be present when I know your time is more valuable elsewhere,” he said. “I think the Council runs better when you are here, but much of what we do is… tedious. Academic planning. Recruiting new faculty. Routine maintenance and review of our guild’s policies. Necessary of course, but it is as you called it ‘_paper-pushing.’”_

Nim flushed slightly at the last comment. She hadn’t meant for it to sound condescending, but perhaps it had. “That’s not the attitude you had when you wanted me to stay for the interview of the new candidates”

“Yes, well,” he paused, flipping another page. “I’ve had time to think.”

“About what?”

“I’ve come to accept that I cannot keep you safe from the world,” he said. “I wished so badly for you stay at the University because I thought surely it would keep you from harm, but I know better now. You will throw yourself into danger willingly and there is nothing I can say or do to prevent it. You are much stronger than I have given you credit for, and I must let that bring me comfort.”

“I- I’m sorry,” Nim eked out, the guilt roiling in her stomach.

“Don’t be. I wanted to keep you safe, but what we want and what we need are two very different things. As I said, Cyrodiil needs you far more than I.”

“Oh.”

Raminus looked down at her with a bittersweet smile and swept her bangs to clear her face. “But Cyrodiil will never long for you as I do.”

Nim leaned into his touch, holding his hand to the side of her face and wishing she could consume its warmth like a fire does dry cedar. “I will stay at the University then,” she said.

Raminus’ expression grew crooked. “Nim, I didn’t mean to dissuade you from returning to Anvil if that is what you would choose. Please do not mistake me.”

“No, I want to stay. It would be best. For the Council, the Guild, the Blades.”

“And for you?”

“It would be better for me too,” she said, releasing his hand back to him regretfully. “Besides, my pets are already here. My plants too. And you’re here. There are more reasons keeping me at the University than in Anvil these days. I want to stay. I want to be with you.”

“Are you certain?”

Nim nodded and felt a comforting warmth climb down her spine as she settled back against the cushions, her head against his thigh. It was the right decision, she told herself. This was where her future lied. She remembered those childhood dreams of living in the Imperial City. Life on the Waterfront held none of that glamor, and her new position at the Arcane University far surpassed anything her nine-year-old mind could have imagined.

Maybe things could be like before, she thought, filled with classes, new experiments, singing in the Lustratorium gardens. She could spend time with Methredhel and Amusei again, rejoin them for drinks at the Bloated Float and spend the night stumbling and cursing at each other as they made their way home. Was this home now? Here in her bare quarters, two pets, and Raminus beside her?

“I will have to send for the last of my things,” she said, looking up at him again, though his face was mostly obscured by the papers in his hand. “I left all my winter and spring outfits in Anvil. Maybe I’ll bring my summer clothes too. I guess that’s a while a way, but if I’m staying here long term, I might as well, right?”

Raminus smiled meekly. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said, and though his tone was muted, his eyes sparkled like cut emerald. “I prefer it when you’re close.”

Nim nestled against his leg and closed her eyes. "Me too," she whispered, and let her mind drift away, the crackling of the fire and the scratching of the quill filling her with soft static. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! A fight! And that concludes the Mages Guild quest line. I hope i did it justice. I had to make the Mannimarco boss battle better than it was in game, because the gameplay was like… King of Worms who? So hopefully it was a little more intense here.
> 
> Anyway Lucien is returning v soon, so yeah keep an eye out.


	43. Too Much

**Chapter 43: Too Much**

Martin had spent so long toiling over the _Mysterium Xarxes_. Day and night went by in blurs as he deciphered its riddles, and finally, he had something to show for it. An answer. Or a piece of one at least. He found himself excitedly awaiting Nim’s return and the chance to show her what he had learned, for now they were one step closer to Mankar Camoran. Now he didn’t feel like such a useless waste of space.

And now, Nim stood before him. Martin blinked, all excitement in him evaporating to dust.

He had just finished explaining to the young Bosmer what he had learned about the Xarxes puzzle, the four items they would need to open the portal to Camoran’s Paradise and retrieve the Amulet of Kings. The first item was the blood of the Daedra, and Nim had stood there nodding as he explained, her eyes growing wild about the edges.

Not a second had passed since the request for a Daedric artifact had left his lips, and suddenly a slew of cursed items surrounded him, pouring out from Nim’s bag as though all this time she was an armory on legs.

“What is this?” Martin asked breathlessly, probing at a worn, grey hood with the end of a butter knife.

Nim sighed contently and nodded toward the table of scattered weapons. “You asked for ‘em, now take your pick.”

“Is that.. Nimileth, is that Nocturnal’s cowl?”

She nodded, rubbing at the inside corner of her eye. “Yup.”

Martin’s mind could not process the implication. He skipped over it like a stone across the surface of water.

“And what are these?” he asked, the stone still skipping and at a loss for anything else to say.

“Sword of Jyggalag. Staff of Sheogorath,” she said, pointing to each of them as she listed them off. She then held up an eerie matte black dagger and smiled. “This is Mehrunes Razor. Use it if you can. I think it will be kind of funny, you know, given its Dagon causing all of this. Throw it back at him, I say. Besides, the other two weapons have sentimental value. The Cowl, meh, do with it what you will.”

“Sentimental—"

The stone sunk. Martin felt the color drain from his face. “Why in the sixteen planes do you have these?”

She shifted her weight from foot to foot and looked up at him with pursed lips. “I don’t think you really want to know.”

“I’m… uncertain.”

A sudden flash of inspiration struck her face, lighting it up like flame to straw. Martin felt his stomach roll in anticipation.

“Ooh, I have an even better idea,” she cooed, and without warning, sliced the tip of her ring finger open against the edge of the silver short sword. Blood began to pool and slide down the side of her hand in thick, scarlet drops. She held it over an empty goblet on the table, and Martin watched, speechless, as blood dripped down into its cup.

“Might want to put in a vial or something,” she said, glancing up at him as the blood continued to flow. “But it’s blood of the Daedra, just as you asked. Let’s try it out. I’m curious to see if it works.”

“You’re mad,” Martin muttered out and when his senses returned to him with a jolt of electricity, he cried it out again. “By the Nine, you're actually mad!”

What in Oblivion did she think she was doing carrying all of these cursed weapons around with her? What was she doing pouring out her blood for use in a Daedric ritual?

He rushed to her, ripping the goblet out of her hand and setting it on the table before he let a pulse of blue light heal the cut flesh of her finger.

“Nimileth, I- I don’t know what to think of all this,” he said, barely a note calmer. “You’ve lost it.”

Nim smiled up at him proudly, revealing a top row of glistening, white teeth. “Ain’t that just the way,” she said.

Martin shook his head, loose hair tumbling around him, but he could not clear it of his racing concerns. “You’re starting to worry me with this talk of the Daedra, this behavior. I feel anxious just watching you… smile like that.”

She scrunched her face at that, pouting slightly in response. “Then look somewhere else.”

“We’ve been asking too much of you lately. I ought to be sending one of the Blades in your place. Perhaps you should see rest here for a while. I will have Jauffre call for a healer—”

“Martin,” she cut him off with a frank look. “Try it.”

“I don’t know what’s come over you, but I don’t like it at all. It’s disconcerting at best and at worst—”

“Martin,” Nim interrupted again, this time her voice stern. She crossed her arms over her chest and looked up at him as though she were a tired mother watching her child in the midst of a tantrum. “I need to tell you something, but I won’t say it if you’re going to have another fit.”

“I’m not having a fit,” he shot back. “I am worried.”

“Well, unworry yourself then,” she said dismissively. “This is important

An inexplicable sense of dread filled his chest as he met her austere gaze, but he could not turn her away no matter how cold the fear ran in his blood. “Okay, I am calm,” he told her. “Go on then,”

“Kvatch was not the first Oblivion gate I entered,” she began, her frown cooling slightly as she took a deep breath. “There was one east of Bravil on a small Island in the Niben Bay. When I entered I was transported to the Shivering Isles where Sheogorath was in search of a mortal champion to drive back Jyggalag’s invasion. Do you know what the Greymarch is?”

Martin shook his head, his mouth drawn tight and bloodless.

“It happens at the end of every era. Jyggalag returns to destroy all of the Shivering Isles, to wipe it clean and begin anew. It is part of the curse that the other Daedric Princes placed upon him. As part of this event, Sheogorath transforms back to his previous form, and his chosen champion dons the mantle in his place, becoming the new Prince of Madness. Do you see what I am saying, Martin?” But the priest could not reply even when his mouth fell open. Nim looked at him with a crooked frown.

“I am Sheogorath,” she said.

For a moment Martin was silent. The blackened wood in the hearth sputtered beside them, bubbles of sap oozing and spitting from the grain. He stood there, mouth agape, and she looked at him with that sever frown that looked unfamiliar on her face. Then Martin laughed.

He laughed for a long time, longer han he could remember laughing in months, and it felt _good, _freeing and a little bit wild. As his laughter pitched and faded, Nim continued staring. She licked the drying blood off her finger and then sighed as Martin attempted to regain his breath.

“What--” he started, then cleared his throat of the chuckle he felt rising again from his belly. “What did you just say?

“Are your ears filled with cotton, Priest? I said I am Lord Sheogorath, Daedric Prince of Madness.”

Martin found himself once more at a loss for words. She really believed it didn’t she? By the Gods, he _was_ dealing with a mad woman. The savior of Kvatch was an absolute lunatic!

“Is that why you’ve been running headfirst into this business with Mehrunes Dagon?” he asked, attempting to maintain a wary expression but unable to contain his grin. He forced himself to swallow it down. He shouldn’t be smiling, he told himself. The girl was ill. She needed help. She needed the Gods.

“I didn’t have much of a choice, now did I?” she said sourly.

“And these Daedric artifacts, did you seek them out because you think you’re a Daedric prince?”

Nim’s expression drooped wearily. “Did I say _I think _I am Sheogoarth?”

“Yes. You said—”

“No,” she quickly bit out. “I said_ I am Sheogorath. _You don’t want to believe me, that’s fine. Try the blood. You’ll know it then.”

Martin stood silently and pursed his lips into a tight bud. He stared down at the artifacts on the table. The blue runes on the cowl glistened, as though winking at him. Beside it was a silver sword of a crystalline material he had never encountered before. Nim’s blood coated the very tip.

Across the length of the table was a staff that certainly looked alien and strange to him. It was rugged and gnarled with some sort of glass eye embedded into the wood. It looked straight at him, studying him. He didn’t have to stare at it for more than a passing second to know it was w_rong._

Martin found himself entertaining her assertions. Say they really were what she had claimed them to be, artifacts of the Daedra. How had she come to possess them? How long had she been carrying them around? Months? Years? No wonder she expressed such little concern for her soul. She must have been consorting with the Daedra from a very young age, lost amidst their guiles and seductive sway. They must have driven her to madness by now. No wonder she thought she was Lord Sheogorath. The Daedra’s corruption could be the only explanation for why she was saying what she was.

And then there was the blade she called Mehrunes Razor. No light shined off its smooth, dark surface. In fact, it appeared as though it swallowed down the very candle flame that flickered on the table beside it. He felt his stomach turn again and peeled his eyes away

It couldn’t be true. No, she had to be playing with him. He looked over to the cup of her blood, then up to meet her eyes. They were dark and round, glassy in the lambent light. They were waiting for him to speak.

_Poor girl_, he thought. She was losing her very mind.

“I’ll take the dagger,” he said, holding her stare.

“But keep the blood too. I need to know if it will work.”

Martin tried hard not to look at her with commiseration. “I don’t think that is wise.”

“You still don’t believe me," she frowned. “Fine. I’m sure you’ll be forced to see the truth soon enough.”

Ignoring the foreboding of her words, Martin gestured for her to sit down, and pushed the remaining artifacts out of the way as he took his own seat. She settled down beside him and glanced over his notes as he cleared his throat to begin again.

“Let’s ignore the Daedra for now. We will circle back to It later.”

“Maybe,” Nim said, looking wary. “What else is on your mind?”

“I found one more thing in my translations, something about the blood of the Divines.”

“Do they have blood?”

“I don’t know." 

“Can we use yours? The blood of Tiber Septim runs through you.”

“You’re awfully happy to go around pricking fingers today aren’t you?” He noted, and Nim shrugged a shoulder weakly. “No, the text is quite explicit that the blood needs to be of the Divines not simply from one who possess it. I admit, this stalled me for a good number of days. How to obtain the blood of a god? But then Jauffre solved it. You should find him and ask him to explain to you where we can obtain the Armor of Tiber Septim. I believe he said it was laid to rest in the catacombs of a fort called Sancre Tor.”

“Sancre Tor?” she repeated, “Where is that?”

“Near Chorrol, I think. South of here anyway.”

She hummed to herself, looking remarkably pensive, and it unnerved Martin how quickly she seemed to lose herself in thought, though he suspected there was quite a lot a woman of her station had to think about.

“Chorrol?” she asked, as though double checking with him. He nodded. “Good. I have a few things I need to pick up that way.”

“Please speak with Jauffre before you leave. He’ll tell you more about Sancre Tor and also...” Martin trailed off, not sure how to explain the rest.

At his pause, Nim perked up inquisitively. “And also what?”

He met her with a slight grimace. “An Oblivion gate opened up near Bruma’s walls, and I believe Jauffre has volunteered you to escort a contingent of guards through it.” He looked down at her, attempting to gauge her reaction, but her expression remained the same as before, curious and eager. “They want to learn how to close it themselves.”

“Alright. I can see to it before leave.” She didn’t sound reluctant and scratched at the back of her head, seeming more concerned with the itch there than with his troubling request. He let out a small sigh of relief. “Anything else?”

A brief pause, and then Martin reached into the pocket of his robes.

“One thing before you go,” he said. “I was thinking about the snowberries you brought for me. It only felt right that I give you something back.

Nim raised a brow at him and laughed, the sound soft and airy like snowfall. “Martin, I found those on the side of the road. You don’t have to pay me back for anything.”

“In truth, it’s not just the snowberries. I feel terrible for sending you all over the province. I roped you into this without realizing how much I was asking.”

She dismissed him with a wave. “Oh, I’m plenty used to it. And you’re the Emperor now anyway. Might as well get used to ordering around your subjects.”

“Nimileth,” he frowned.

“It was a joke.”

With a heaviness in his chest, Martin wondered how much of this burden that he and the Blades had placed upon her was now contributing to her spiraling madness. _Too much_, he thought, _too much. _

He gestured for her hand and into her palm he placed a pale blue ribbon with Dragon’s Tongue blossoms embroidered along its length in gold thread. “I found it in my quarters,” he said, “tucked away in some drawer. It reminded me of you, and well… I’m certainly not going to use it.”

Nim’s eyes sparkled as she stretched the ribbon out in her hands. “Well, now I have to get you something else,” she said quietly. “This is far lovelier than my snowberries.”

“No, you’ve given me much more than that. Outside of your duties to the Blades, you’ve been a good friend to me when all I’ve done is preach and reprimand you on the dangers of the Daedra. You’ve been far too kind and patient with me than I deserve.”

“I’m an argumentative sort,” she said, smirking at the corners. “It works out that you are too.”

Martin wished he could smile along with her but the consequences of such recklessness around Daedric magic was far too severe. He fought back the smile that curled at his lips, swallowed it down like a rock into his belly. “I am only concerned for your soul, Nimileth.”

“Well at least somebody is,” she snorted. “But look, I don’t mind debating moral ambiguity. It’s the holding faith part I struggle with.”

“I am priest,” he said. “It is my duty to help you find the Divine light.”

“Yes, and I am a heathen. It is my duty to push you away.” Her eyes were still fixed on the ribbon. She ran it through her hands, fingering the raised petals as though reading the etchings of a rune stone. “This must be the prettiest ribbon I’ve ever been given.”

“Are you gifted ribbons often?”

“No, and I don’t think I shall ever receive one lovelier than this,” she said and began to tie her hair back and away from her face. “I’ll brag about it to all my friends at the high society balls I attend. _Look at my ribbon from Emperor Martin Septim,_ I’ll say, and they’ll grow ill with envy. So ill they will vomit.”

Martin blushed faintly, feeling conflicted. “It’s terribly silly, isn’t it?” he let out with a rough breath and ran a hand through his hair. “You’ve been sprinting and fighting your way across Cyrodiil on my behalf, and I can’t even repay you properly. Jauffre won’t even let me go into Bruma. I couldn’t visit the market even if I tried.”

Nim shook her head quickly. “No gifts,” she said. “I have little want for things anyway, at least not the things money can buy.” Martin looked at her curiously. “But there is something you could do instead.”

“What?” he asked, but if he knew he could make good on such a promise, he would have said _anything._

“Will you pray for me?”

Martin found himself quiet at the request, surprised and more than a little disbelieving. He thought surely she was joking, playing him for the foolish priest as she had done so many times before, but when she turned to look at him, ribbon tied into a droopy bow atop her head, her face was solemn and earnest.

“Pray that I might one day find the strength to turn away from wickedness and seek the Divines’ light,” she said. “Ask Stendarr to grant me mercy and pray that one day I might forgive myself too for all the horrible things I have done.”

_What horrors, _he wanted to ask. _What wickedness?_

“I will pray for you,” he said.

And when he found himself alone in his chambers, Martin did, just as he had prayed for her every night since she had saved him from that crumbling temple in Kvatch.

* * *

A week later, the Bruma gate closed and the armor of Tiber Septim returned, Nim managed to break away from her duties to the Blades and make her way down to Anvil. She would await word of her next assignment at the University, and she did not expect it would be very long at all until she was given another errand. It seemed both Martin and Jauffre worked tirelessly to find new tasks to assign to her, but she wasn’t there often. She supposed she had left them with little choice but to make her sporadic visits worth their while.

Travelling south, she re-read the letter detailing the Draconis contract that she had picked up while in Chorrol. She had managed to kill only the first of the five marks, but the rest were too far off her intended trek, and she knew she’d be closer to them when she was back at the University. Hero one day. Assassin the next. What had her life become? Gods, it sickened her to dwell on for longer than a passing moment, and so she pushed it from her mind and focused instead on the contract itself.

She scrunched the parchment up in her fist. An elderly mother and her four grown children. Why were they wanted dead? What could they have possibly done to deserve it? Nim knew what the Black Sacrament entailed, what the gold fare of a Dark Brotherhood assassination truly was. People didn’t pay that kind of price to kill innocents without mercy, did they? Something _terrible _had to have been done to want someone dead the badly. At least Nim hoped so. The alternative was far worse.

Upon reaching the Anvil, Nim felt a small sense of relief. She ambled down to her empty house and set to work on filling her trunk with clothing and a few essential books. She didn’t plan to stay for very long, just a night to pack her bags and maybe head to the guild hall to thank Carahil and Thaurron for all their patience with her and her sporadic, unreliable schedule.

As she heaved her trunk of clothes down to her foyer, she glanced around at all the decorations he had accumulated over the past year. Her house was still _full_ of things. Knick-knacks, gemstones, bones, pretty shards of sea glass that she’d picked up along the beach. Some would call it junk, but Nim had always thought of them as treasures. A shame They would have to stay here for now. Perhaps one day she’d return to reclaim them. Perhaps one day she really would retire to Anvil for something more permanent. Looking around at her house, she felt a melancholic pang strike against her sternum.

More and more, she came to realize that she didn’t really have a home outside of her own skin. Everywhere she had ever lived before Benirus Manor had been temporary, her return unthinkable. She never had the luxury of stability, and even now she wasn’t sure she possessed it. She wasn’t sure she could recognize it even if she did.

So much of her life had been spent floating at the will of the wind, wherever opportunity took her, and she wondered if that was what freedom was supposed to feel like. Was this the independence she had longed for from behind the castle walls of Kvatch? The freedom to rob and steal? To seek forbidden knowledge and leave ruin in her wake?

It felt like too much. These days, she was less like a leaf on the breeze and more like a rock lost to the current of the sea. Was freedom supposed to be this tempestuous and heavy? It felt like a crashing wave, throwing her violently against the jutting rocks and grinding her down, day by day, to coarse sand.

She reminded herself that it was her fine judgement that led here here, and there was nothing else to blame for her anguish except for the choices she had made. It had been her choice to live as a thief and then an assassin, to stay at the University and lie to Raminus all the while. And even amidst the chaos, it was her choice to do good where she could force it in, to save Lorise and her fellow mages, to save Martin and the fate of the Empire. 

Sometimes Nim felt as though she were watching herself from behind a window, screaming and banging against the glass as she slowly spiralled away. Everything she did felt like too much and somehow never enough. Always there were mistakes and loss. Always transgressions. Perhaps she had too much freedom and with the excess, she squandered it away on lawlessness and criminal behavior. Could she change? Was there still time, or was her soul now doomed to Oblivion for eternity? Would it even matter if she tried?

She thought about the Deadlands, the black spires standing hundreds of feet tall in the ash-filled sky, and how easy it would be to leap from them and be lost forever. Perhaps that would be a just use of this freedom of her making. It didn't seem so different from what she felt now, lost. Sinking, for at some point in the past year she had chosen to throw herself out into the depths of the ocean and let the water do with her what it will.

Nim pushed those pitiful, self-indulgent thoughts away with a disgusted grimace. How like her to think only of her troubles? _Me, me, me, me, me, _she jeered at herself in silence. How like her to be filled with these misty-eyed regrets while the world slowly burned to cinder around her. 

"Ugh."

Returning to the task at hand, she heaved her trunk along the floor, and dropped it off in her foyer. She opened the front door, eager for a fresh breath of air, and watched as the last light of the dying sun disappeared beneath the billowing white sails of the merchant vessels along the distant harbor.

She should get dinner soon, she thought, and a couple things for the carriage ride tomorrow. All she had in her house were stores of grain, tea leaves, and single tin of coffee. Not much to make a meal out of. She started on emptying the last of her drawers, but when the next round of hunger pangs set in, she headed out into the twilight of the evening, down the road to the Count’s Arms.

It was busy, but as was to be expected for Loredas. No tables were open but she didn’t need to sit, just purchase a few things to take back to the house. She picked her way through to the bar and waved down Wilbur for a bottle of Tamika’s, some vegetables, and a few dried sausages, and as she waited, she gazed out into the sea of people. They looked happy there, dancing and drinking, engaging in all manners of merriment. At the far tables, women flirted with their companions, some acting coy and some men thinking they were much closer to wooing their dinner date than it appeared from where Nim stood.

Her eyes fell on a pale Breton woman sitting alone. She was very pretty, Nim thought. Raven haired and doe-eyed. Painfully pretty, too pretty to be sitting all by her lonesome looking flustered and nervous. Maybe her date had stood her up. Nim could hardly imagine such a thing_. A woman like her being stood up?_ Why, Nim would never dream of it. If she had half the guts with women as she did with men, she might have sauntered over, asked to keep her company over dinner at the very least.

Instead, Nim sighed and accepted her bag of goods from Wilbur. She made to leave, casting one last look at the lone woman and started to find her accepting a wine glass from a man who was now taking the empty seat at her table.

_Well, it makes sense, _she reminded herself. The woman was rather lovely. She heard her giggle at something the man had said, a soft cooing sound floating through the tavern din to reach her, and Nim only hoped that the date went better than the last one she had attempted at the Count’s Arms.

As she weaved her way back to the door, she began to feel a gelid weight thicken in her blood, as though slowly it were being turned to ice. Her heart sputtered in her chest and soon she was overwhelmed with the prickling sensation of being watched. She paused and looked over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t overreacting, but there it was, the dark, unbearable heaviness of eyes following her around the room.

Nim turned, scanned the room, found no one she recognized except the lute player, but he wasn’t watching her. She scanned the blur of tavern goers, the men, the women engaged in their light-hearted banter, all of them distracted, none of them looking. Her eyes fell upon the table where the Breton sat, and there was Lucien, staring straight at her.

Nim’s heart plummeted into her stomach, rendering her unable to move. By Sithis, what was he doing here? Why was he in Anvil? There was no reason for him to be here!

She held his stare, her face motionless and blank, and Lucien smiled, at least his lips did. He was nodding his head to something the woman was saying, but his eyes swept right over her shoulder, straight into Nim's.

She was frozen, wondering and fearing for her next move. Was she in trouble? What had she done? Was it the contracts? But she was getting to them! She should have known that Lucien was an impatient man. They _would _be completed, she just needed time. Did he come looking to reprimand her?

Grim doubt seeped into her thoughts and her heart began to race again, thumping and thumping like a mace attempting to crack through her ribs. What if Mathieu had said something to him about finding her here with Raminus? Did Lucien really care so much that he’d come looking for the two of them here? She swallowed down a hard knot in her throat.

Should she run?

Lucien’s eyes were a starless night across the room, and he held her in his gaze so firmly she thought he meant to swallow her down with it. She wasn’t sure how long had passed when at last he broke it and returned his attention to the woman at the table. He fell back into the gentle rhythm of conversation as seamlessly as one takes in a breath of air, and Nim found herself staring in a daze. What was she supposed to do now?

Forcing her legs into motion, she shuffled off toward the door and pressed herself to the wall, out of view from the table, where she could find a moment to breathe and collect herself. She tugged at the chain of her amulet, thinking hard and thinking quickly.

She could leave town right now, take only what she could carry on the road and catch the next carriage from Skingrad. If Lucien had come here for her, he would be angry, but so what? It wouldn’t be the first time she made him so.

It was possible, however, that he wasn’t here for her at all. Perhaps he was on business, on a contract. Nim swallowed a sharp breath. That woman at the table… could she be his mark? She didn’t think he still carried those out on his own, but then again, she had gotten lax in her work. Maybe he needed to take on contracts to make up for the Dark Brotherhood’s recent loss in members and the dawdling pace at which she completed hers.

Nim sucked in a deep breath, calming herself and feeling warmth flood back into her blood as the frisson of her initial shock waned. She was feeding into her paranoia. There must be a more practical explanation for his presence, she reasoned. Surely a _Speaker_ had better things to do than take on contracts for willowy young maidens. Lucien was probably just keeping himself busy for the evening, before his real work began, whatever that was. It seemed like the type of thing he would do, lecherous old bastard.

_Poor woman_, Nim thought. _I bet she believes every pretty, little thing he’s telling her. _She wondered how many other women he had fooled this way too. Women just as young and naïve as Nim was, though she did not count herself among the scores of blameless. She peeked around the corner, caught just half of the woman’s face hidden behind her flowing hair. She couldn’t have been any older than Nim, face soft and full of round edges, and she was smiling meekly into her cup of wine so blissful and unknowing. Nim ground down against her teeth. Did Lucien intend to kill her? Was this to be one of his victims?

_He would not have this one_, she decided then and there. Not in Anvil. Not in this city where she lived.

Gathering up her sack of produce and brushing her hair back over her ears, Nim peeled away from the wall. She was going to ask Lucien what the hell he was doing in Anvil, and she didn’t care about the consequences. She was sick of living in fear around him, sick of him breaking into her life so freely. So sick she felt she would retch if she stood still for any longer.

She pushed past the crowd, the people a vague blur in her periphery, and beneath the rush of blood in her ears, each strum of the lute-player sounded like a droning murmur. Nim wondered if Lucien would see through her bravado as she calmly sauntered over to his table, then quickly sent the thought away. She plopped her bag down right in the center of the table, and the Breton woman jumped in her seat, a splash of wine sloshing off the rim of her goblet and onto her delicate, pale hand. She glanced over to Nim, ruby-red lips rolled inward, and then to Lucien, looking confused.

_Gods she’s pretty_, Nim thought, and the girl really didn’t know how lucky she was that she was given the opportunity to escape from Lucien unscathed.

“He’s with me, darling,” she drawled, her voice as wearisome as she could make it. “You best press the thought from your mind.”

“Oh!” The woman blushed furiously, her whole face turning scarlet. She looked to Lucien in bewilderment, perhaps for an explanation, but he simply sat there sipping his wine, trying very hard to contain his smile. “What is this? What- I don’t understand.”

Nim forced out a long, dramatic sigh and rolled her eyes for effect. “And what about that was unclear?” she asked.

Frankly, she felt bad for the girl. It seemed churlish to make her point like this, but what she needed more than anything was to drive the woman away. She wasn’t above being nasty and sharp when the situation called for it, but still, she felt positively beastly playing the part.

The girl looked back to Lucien. “But you said—"

“Pay no attention to anything that leaves his mouth.” Nim cut her off quickly, waving her hand through the air as though shooing away a fly. “His mind isn’t all there these days. It’s rather unfortunate.”

The girl looked down at her lap, sapphire eyes glistening, and face flushed like a rose in bloom. She gathered up her small purse and stood to her feet, offering Nim a miserable little frown. “I’m so sorry. Goodness, I feel like such a fool. I truly didn’t know. I didn’t—"

“It’s okay,” Nim assured her. “Sometimes I forget about him too.”

The woman’s eyes grew dewy. Nim wished she could break her surly expression and offer a sympathetic smile, but she maintained her moue, keeping up the act. The woman shrugged past Nim, who turned to watch as she strode away toward another group of young women across the taproom. They huddled around her, obviously friends, and looked concerned, questioning her startled features and shooting daggers in the direction of Lucien's table. Knowing she had done all she could, Nim plopped herself down into the now empty seat.

“Hello,” she said.

Lucien took a painfully long moment to eye her up and down.

“Well, you’ve spoiled the evening for me,” he said at last and though his tone was bitter, his smile was glittering and fiendishly dark. “I do hope you plan to provide another means of entertainment tonight.”

Nim picked up the barely touched goblet of wine on the table and stared at the smear of red lipstick that lingered on its rim. “Perhaps something can be arranged.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the shit goes down at the Count’s Arms. Anyway…. Hope you’re ready for some toxic spice cause that’s all ya gettin’ whenever Lucien steps onto the scene 


	44. Idle Chatter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: talk of domestic/child abuse. Nothing graphic, but it is mentioned at some point

**Chapter 44: Idle Chatter**

Nim leaned her head into her palm and flicked the finger of her free hand back and forth between the two wine goblets on the table. She stared intensely at Lucien. The Speaker stared right back. Neither of them had spoken another word since their greeting, and eventually the silence began to claw at Nim’s ears. To dampen it, she flicked her fingers faster, back and forth and back and forth, producing a series of dull _clangs _that released some of the quiet tension between them_._

Lucien still did not speak, and Nim studied him, as she had done so many times before. He was dressed in dark silks, clean, freshly shaven. His hair was pulled back as usual, oiled and catching the light like polished obsidian. If he had travelled to Anvil on foot, it was unlikely that he had arrived today. By his kempt appearance, she suspected he had been staying somewhere in town, not passing through, but lingering. Waiting. Searching.

Her stomach twisted. _For what_, she thought. _For who?_

The man in front of her held her gaze steady, eyes regardful. Yes, he was Lucien alright, she concluded, but just as every other time they were together, he looked somehow different than the memory she held in her mind. He was seated with a calm smile, his customary air of smugness curling the corners of his lips, but the glimmer behind his eyes was taut with anticipation. It was not the scintillating, wicked eagerness she had come to expect from him, not the hungered glint of a whetted blade. Instead, Lucien looked worn, some of the sharpness in his features eroded away as though he had weathered much on the road for many long days, as though he had been tossing and sleepless for many long nights.

“Well?” She asked him. The word was sharp on her tongue, but her expression was eerily vacant. Lucien leaned against the table and reached for his goblet, pulling it just out of reach of her wiggling finger.

“Well,” he said.

“Why are you here?”

Lucien shrugged a shoulder nonchalantly. “Does a man need an excuse to unwind on a Loredas night?”

“In Anvil. Don't play coy.” She gritted her teeth, impatience sparking life to her blank features. “Were you following me?”

Lucien tutted softly at the pique on her face. “So self-centered, Nimileth. Did you know that Nirn revolves on a course independent of your own?”

“If you didn’t come for me, what did you come for?” She pressed, and brought her goblet to her lips, grimacing as the wine settled on her tongue. It was a poor selection, and it only served to irritate her further.

“I will get to that later. Finish your drink and let us not cause a scene.”

“A scene?” Her voice pitched, expression shifting quickly from exasperated to apprehensive. “Why would I do that?”

“I’ve noticed that my presence seems to provoke you,” he smirked. “When you saw me, you chose to approach. I can only imagine it was because there is something regarding your contracts that you wish to discuss, or you were looking for an altercation.”

His lips were flushed, eyes hooded, and Nim wondered if he was drunk. He looked positively giddy in his seat, baiting her with that familiar grating arrogance, and it left her itching to punch something. Preferably the smug grin on his face.

She tore her eyes away from him and stared into the pale golden wine in her goblet. “How comforting it is to know that all our interactions can be reduced to talk of work and quarrelling.”

“Am I mistaken?” he asked, brow quirked. “Either that or you were simply too eager to have me alone for reasons I dare not mention in public spaces.”

Nim looked up and forced her eyes to remain firmly set in place lest she roll them so hard she gave herself a migraine.

“I did come over to talk,” she said. “I had a question, and I believed I asked it already. Why are you here?”

“And I believe I already provided my response,” he grinned. “Later. Drink your wine.”

Nim stared bitterly into her cup, nose wrinkled. “My wine, huh?”

“Not originally, but you seemed intent on claiming it for yourself.”

“Now that I’m actually sitting here, I’m having serious doubts about whether I want to finish it at all.”

“Well, I am going to finish mine,” Lucien said, and his voice carried a strange jovial ring, nothing close to what she was used to. He settled against the backrest of his chair, his own goblet pulled close to his chest as he drank. “I’d like it if you joined me.”

“Is that all that matters?” she asked, half sneering, half hissing. “What you want? I revolve on a course independent of yours too, you know.”

“Oh, I know more than most,” he said with a humorless chuckle, “but you did frighten off my company. You’re not going to leave me here drinking alone, now are you?”

Nim scowled as loudly as she could and watched her reflection waver in the surface of her wine. The foul taste of it still lingered at the back of her tongue. “Why should I stay then? If it has nothing to do with me—”

“I did not say that,” Lucien cut in crisply, and suddenly that high-spirited demeanor was gone.

She met him with a skeptical frown and searched for any discernable traces of dishonesty in his expression. Was he baiting her with this ominous ambiguity? Perhaps he sought to frighten her into staying, that lever he had flipped in his voice just another form of intimidation. It wasn’t a method she considered below him. Few methods were.

“How am I involved?” she asked and was disappointed to find his face unreadable save that masterfully curated air of smug confidence.

“We will get to that eventually.”

“Did something happen? Is everyone okay? Is it Lorise—”

“Patience,” he said, the world lilting on his lips. “Isn’t that one of the virtues your Gods preach?”

Nim sighed sourly in resignation and let her eyes wander about the room. The Count’s Arms was a reputable establishment, but Lucien was still dressed much too nicely to blend in with the other patrons, much too nicely to be sitting next to someone who was dressed as she was.

In her periphery, she could see that the women in the tavern were staring openly at him, and though he didn’t indulge any of the glances they flashed his way, he must have known they were looking. Nim wondered if he received such attention regularly. He certainly acted like he did, sitting there pridefully with a keen smile and cunning eyes, not a bashful thing about him. She felt the urge to scoff, to tell all of those watchful women how mistaken they were for pining after something so monstrous and dead behind the eyes, though she supposed he did look quite alive sitting here in front of her, smirking.

Nim looked back to the Breton woman she had shooed off moments ago. The poor girl still looked so flustered, not angry but confused, and Nim didn’t blame her. With her perfectly made-up face and silk gown, it was evident that she had come out tonight with the intention of impressing someone, and Nim was dressed in her lounging robe, face plain and hair disheveled. She felt she might as well have looked like a potato wearing a burlap sack in comparison.

“You seemed close to wooing her,” she said, eyes on the dejected Breton.

Lucien tilted his head in her direction. “Perhaps.”

Though the woman was now chattering among her friends, her gaze flitted back to Lucien every now and then. There was a wistfulness about it, as though wondering if he might return to her. Nim dared to say she looked _hopeful_ and felt her stomach knot. She wondered what Lucien had said to that girl, what kind of promise he made to convince her of his affections so absolutely. Perhaps they knew each other from previous encounters. She did seem… _familiar_ in his presence_._

Nim drank another sip of the unpleasant wine and stifled a scowl. “She’s lingering about at the bar waiting for you,” she said, nodding toward her. “If you don’t chase after her now, she’ll surely leave.”

Lucien merely shrugged. “I am content for now.”

“Content?" she sneered. You?”

"For now."

“I doubt it will last long.”

His smile quirked, revealing a flash of bright teeth that he hid behind the rim of his goblet as he drank. “I’ve come to Anvil on business. Had I come at my own leisure, I might have had some real fun tonight.”

“Why am I certain that the two of you do not share the same definition of _fun._”

Lucien leaned in toward the center of the table, beckoning Nim to join him. She met him there, but not without hesitation. “Would you like to know what I was planning to do to her?” he whispered.

“No,” she whispered back. “I would not.”

“Perhaps if you knew, I could convince you to join us.”

“Ugh,” she grunted, face scrunched like crumpled parchment.

Lucien glanced back to the woman at the bar, a sinister yearning illuminating his eyes from deep within. "Shame," he said. “She had such lovely skin too. So soft and pale. What color I’d bring to it with only a kiss of my blade.”

Nim withdrew, waved her hand through the air to shoo him and his theatrics away. “I didn’t think it possible for you to be any more dull,” she groused, “yet here you are, surprising me.”

Lucien pulled back from the table looking mildly offended. He said nothing in response, only shot Nim a sideways glare, and soon his insulted expression faded as he let his eyes wander about the taproom. He took in the bustle of people the way one might scrutinize fruits at a market stall or cuts of meat at the butchers. He was inspecting for flaws, searching for shapes he liked, for things he could peel away, cut off and save for later.

Nim rubbed at her forehead and spent a quiet moment rethinking her decision to interrupt him at all. She wondered if he was serious about what he had planned for that Breton girl, but she didn’t dare ask. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. The poor girl truly didn’t know how lucky she was to have escaped him.

With his gaze still meandering around the tavern room, Nim tapped on his hand and attempted to call his attention back to their previous conversation.

“You said you wouldn’t show up in Anvil unannounced,” she reminded him. “You told me that—”

“I did not come here to find you,” he said dryly. “We will finish our wine and then take our leave. I will tell you then and only then.”

“No, tell me now.”

Lucien raised his brows, then scoffed. “And shall I ask the bard to sing it out loud for all in the tavern to hear too? Drink your wine and bother me about it no more.”

Suspicious of his persistence, Nim sniffed the wine in her goblet. It didn’t smell of any familiar poisons, didn’t taste of them either. She took a small sip and smacked her lips, rolling it and testing it against the inside of her cheeks. She had felt no strange effects since she had started drinking and cautiously determined it was safe to continue. That didn’t mean she liked it. This selection possessed far too many green aromas. It tasted of violet with notes of capsicum and sharp herbs that overwhelmed the subtle sweetness and mild tang.

The tavern lutist played on from the center of the room. One, two, three songs passed with only idle sipping and sharp stares shared between the two assassins.

Lucien studied her pinched expression. “You look displeased,” he said, regarding the bitterness with which she eyed her drink

“Wine’s trash.”

He raised a brow, looked somewhere between laughing and sighing. “Shall I order us something else?”

“Maybe,” Nim shrugged. “Depends on whether we’re going to sit here silently or not.”

“It’s rather uncharacteristic of you to prefer anything more.”

“Not true,” she said. “It really boils down to how pleasant the company is.”

“Yet you so rudely dismissed my dinner date to monopolize my time,” he leered. “At least our conversation stimulating.”

Nim shot him a withering look. “Fine, you want to talk? Who did you come looking for? What--“

“Later,” Lucien cut in, voice nearly a growl and with it, his playfulness vanished into the air so swiftly she had to question whether it was ever truly there at all. “Do not ask me again.”

His eyes darkened, glare sharp enough to cut, and it was enough to give Nim pause. She turned away from him, scowling into her horrid drink.

“I’ll take something else then,” she said, remembering the unopened bottle of Tamika’s in her bag but choosing not to retrieve it. She wasn’t one to turn down a drink on someone else’s dime, especially not when she knew of Lucien’s expensive tastes. Besides, she’d need that bottle later, after Lucien was gone and she was left to drink it down all alone and wash the taste of him from her mouth. Would their time together end like that again? It always ended like that with him.

_No,_ she told herself. She was in Anvil now. She was at home, the closest thing to it at least._ This time will be different_, she said, _this time, he cannot intimidate me._

The chair across from her scraped against tile, jarring her from her thoughts. Lucien stood to his feet and glanced down at her.

“I will find something more suitable to your tastes, Empress,” he said, voice smothered in smoke.

“Empress?” The word rang in her head like a rusted bell. “Whatever the hell did you mean by that? So, I like wine that doesn’t taste like Spriggan’s piss. Doesn’t make me Chancellor Ocato, now does it?”

“Evidently,” Lucien scraped out and pretended he was not at all amused by her colorful description. “Perhaps when I return, you’ll have thought of something stimulating to say.”

With his back turned to her, Nim dumped the remnants of her wine into his goblet. If he liked it so much, he could damn well finish it. Grumbling under hear breath, she watched as he parted through the crowd to make for the bar. The Breton woman from earlier watched too. She sat straighter in her stool as he drew closer, eyes shimmering with that same wishful longing. Lucien did not look, but instead passed his eyes over her as though taking in the blur of scenery from a carriage window or noting the shade of wallpaper while descending down a hallway.

_Cruel bastard,_ Nim thought to herself. It was far worse than if he had just averted his eyes completely. Something about the woman’s crestfallen expression and his cold, haughty gaze seemed familiar, as though she were watching a dim memory grow brighter before her eyes. As she continued to trail him in her periphery, she felt her flesh prickle. She realized what it was, and the hairs at the nape of her neck stood to their ends. It reminded her of how Antoinetta used to look at him, how Lucien would look though her.

What had Lucien said to that woman? What had he said to Antoinetta that made her look at him so? Nim wondered what iteration of sweet nothings he had told his last Silencer that left her so love-sick and crazy for such a monstrous, empty man. Strange, the sway he seemed to have over some people. She wondered how many of those lines Lucien had tried use on her, and then felt her blood grow a few degrees colder.

What had Vicente said of Lucien’s last Silencer?

_He placed her at Sithis’ door. She entered willingly. _

It didn’t sound terribly different from what Mathieu had warned her of weeks ago. _And yet his last Silencer met a death of his own making._

Nim snapped her gaze away from the bar and looked to the nearest window where the black sky arched like velvet. Clouds parted before the slivered moons, and the stars lay veiled behind their darkness. She shook her head. It didn’t matter what he had said to those women or if he had said the same things to her. She didn’t believe them anyway, those _pretty_ words. Lucien had whispered them across her mangled body, over the bruises he had painted, and the blood stained there by his orders. He thought to use those idle promises and praises like a wrench to pry her open, but Nim did not trust him. She never had.

Lucien might have gotten away with this in the past, with those lies he spun like the silk of charm spells to make his lovers sick with longing, but Nim did not believe them, and even if they were true, she didn’t need them. She didn’t need anything from him. He was a blight, eating at her roots and spreading to her leaves though the xylem and she’d burn herself to the ground before she let him plague her. She would not let herself become like those poor fools, wilting to his wishes. Like Antoinetta or Aventina who had loved him so, who he had betrayed and who had died for his—

Lucien’s dark frame shadowed her vision, and she peeled her eyes away from the window to greet him. He sat an uncorked bottle of Surille on the table with a small _thud_, looked down at her with a raised brow as though awaiting a _thank you._ Nim did not oblige him, and she did not wait for him to settle back into his seat before reaching out for the wine. Lucien snorted at her impropriety, gesturing freely toward the new bottle already in her hands, and then he looked to her, expectant and eager.

“Oh, I’m supposed to engage you, aren’t I?” she drawled and poured herself a fresh glass. It was a rich burgundy color and smelled of black currant and faintly of cedar, much more her taste. It was no Tamika’s, but it was good wine. Her embittered frown softened. “How… how has your week been?”

Lucien took his goblet back into his hands, raising a brow when he found it fuller now than before he had left. “I’ve had better,” he said, staring cautiously at his drink. “What did you do to my wine?”

“I didn’t do anything, just gave you mine. You’d be crazy to think I was going to finish that swill. Anyway, what brought it down?”

Lucien paused. Sipped, then paused again. “I learned of things that confirmed suspicions I was hoping were wrong.”

“And that brought you to Anvil?”

“Nimileth.” A deep, exhausted sighed filled his mouth like heavy fog. “Later.”

She narrowed her eyes to thin slits, and Lucien swiftly cut her off before she could open her mouth to press further.

“And how was your week?” He asked, finishing off his wine in a long gulp before pouring out more from the new bottle.

“I killed many necromancers and two liches. A good week for me.”

“Is it true that you killed Mannimarco?” he asked, his voice frighteningly even.

“It is,” Nim muttered and tried not to let her surprise show as she answered him, tried to keep up the same annoyed expression as before. “Where did you hear about that?”

“I find your name comes up in the paper quite often these days.”

“Talos fuck,” she cursed into her cup. “You’re kidding me? First Kvatch and now this. Why does no one in this bloody province value discretion?”

“It’s not as though they’re reporting on the weather,” he retorted. “Word of your exploits spread through the province quite quickly.”

“You make it sound like a disease when you say it that way,” she snorted. “Imagine how that would read – ‘Nimileth’s exploits ravaging the local necromancer population.’ What would the side-effects be, I wonder? Dismemberment and a bit of char? A tendency toward spontaneous combustion?” She tapped her chin. “What do you think, sound reasonable?”

A cruel glimmer split the oak of Lucien’s irises.

“Never mind,” she mumbled. “Don’t answer that.”

“Master Wizard Nimileth they called you,” he noted. She grimaced slightly as the words left his lips, but her reaction only seemed to encourage him further. “I’m surprised you’re not more widely recognized here in Anvil. Don’t they read the papers this far west?”

“It’s best they don’t,” she said. “But I’m guessing they didn’t include an illustration in my likeness?” Lucien shook his head, indicating that they did not. “Good.”

“Good?”

“The less who know the better. Anyway, I can’t say I’m much of a subject for a portrait of heroism. I think few are willing to accept that _Nim,_ _the tiny alchemist down the road_, is the same person as _Nimileth, defeater of great evils._ It probably makes them feel bad about themselves in comparison. An unsuspecting thing like me holding titles I have no right to while they’re out there doing…” she motioned to the crowd gathered at the bar. “…sailor things. Fishing. Guarding the city. I don’t know. Things less abstract and more pertinent to the daily life of the lay man.”

“Do you really think you earned that title unduly?” Lucien asked. That sinister glint in his eyes was still there, dancing with the reflection of the wall sconce beside their table. Nim shrugged her shoulders dismissively.

“No more justly than the one you bestowed on me,” she said, her voice thick with irreverence.

This drew from Lucien a stern glare, and she had to fight back the urge to wither against the back of her seat as he glowered. “Don’t be glib,” he chided her.

“If you knew the rest of the Council members, you’d know I have no right sitting among them.”

Lucien seemed to consider this as he drank his wine. “They did include a portrait of the new Arch-mage. Youngest to hold his title, so the paper read.”

The sound of Raminus’ title in Lucien’s mouth made her want to collapse into herself and disappear. If he spoke his name out loud, she was certain her cool would break. The fact that Lucien had _seen_ his picture, that he could recognize Raminus now if he ever saw them together was too grim a thought to bear. She glanced down at the emerald ring on her finger, thought of his eyes glimmering back.

“Well, there you go,” she said, stopping her heart from leaping into her throat. She forced a calm indifference to her face, hoped Lucien could not see through its artifice. “Guess the paper went with a more appealing subject to grace their front page.”

“They mentioned a couple other names alongside yours and the Arch-mage’s.”

“The new council members probably. We’ve had a quick change in leadership.”

Lucien twisted the goblet’s thin neck in his fingers and smiled coolly as he watched her. Nim held his stare, careful not to grow too rigid in her seat. He was searching for something in her expression, for what she couldn’t say, but whatever it was that weighed on his mind as he searched had drained all lingering warmth from his features.

“Are they friends of yours?” he asked

“Colleagues,” she replied with measured evenness.

“You’ve been making a lot of new friends.”

“And? So what if I have? I've been in the guild longer than I've worked with you.“

“I meant nothing by it,” Lucien said, giving his head a light shake, but by the way his gaze hardened upon its return to her, Nim knew it was not _nothing_. "I’m glad to hear that you play nice with _someone_." 

And _that_, he had said with teeth. He had meant it to stab, she was certain of it.

“You should just get it out,” she prodded him, steeling herself agains the back of her seat. “whatever it is you're biting your tongue to hold back.”

Lucien was too eager to oblige her. “So,” he began, “you managed to kill one of the most powerful Necromancer’s to grace Nirn yet you’ve delayed with your Draconis marks. How interesting.”

“I picked the contract up,” she said brusquely. “I’ve already taken care of one of them. I’m getting to the rest.”

“Your work cannot proceed so slowly,” he reproached her. “This is a warning. I will not give you another one.”

“I’m getting to it,” she said again, this time with a flair of indignation. “I’ll be out east early next week. You don’t need to worry.”

“See to it, and then I need not worry. Your idleness reflects poorly on me as well.”

“Eyes of Akatosh,” Nim groaned over the rim of her cup. “Do you only ever discuss work, bloodshed, or lust?”

Lucien’s smiled, the curve of it growing fiendish. “Often times those are one in the same.”

Nim slouched against the back of her chair, sinking low. “Oh, how efficient,” she grumbled. “If you’re intent on keeping us here, can we at least sit and pretend we are two normal, healthy-minded people? Must I be reminded of how we are acquainted every time you speak?”

Lucien groaned as though terribly inconvenienced by the mere consideration. “You approached me dear Sister,” he said and scooted in to the table to rest his elbows across the surface. “Let us not forget that.”

“I haven’t,” she said. “I’ve been regretting the decision ever since.”

“And if I am to stay away from talk of my interests, you may at least try to be pleasant company.”

Nim released a tepid, unenthusiastic sigh and remained in her slouched position. “If that pleases you.”

“You may start _trying_ now.”

Seeing as there were no other options but to endure Lucien’s presence if she wanted to learn what had brought him to Anvil, Nim relented. “Certainly, my dear,” she cooed, swallowing down her frown and drenching her voice in honey. Lucien looked surprised as she twinkled her eyes up at him. "Better?"

“Simple, isn’t it?” He gibed.

“The wine is drinkable now,” she purred. “It calms me.”

They sipped quietly as the lutist played on, now joined by a singer. Every now and then a burst of laughter or the rumble of applause bookended the songs of their setlist, and though Nim had relaxed into the music’s lull, she had not been able to focus on the lyrics. Her mind kept running back to Lucien’s unwelcomed presence, dissecting his words over and over. He claimed his business in town involved her, but that he did not come for her. What did that mean? She hadn’t yet decided whether the information brought her comfort or greater distress.

Meanwhile, Lucien’s eyes roamed over her, glowing in the mellow light. The looked slightly lulled, his lids heavy, though he didn’t seem quite as drunk now as when she had sat down, strange considering they were nearly halfway through the new bottle. Perhaps he had simply acted playful when she approached. Did a man like Lucien _act playful_? She wondered what he was like with Ocheeva and Teinaava when they were younger, wondered if he let his stern mask slip every now and then, if he chased them around Fort Farragut, played hide-and-seek. Did he take them outside for fresh air, to watch the birds skip to and fro across the grass and pull up worms? She wondered if he read to them at night, if so, what kind of stories? Did he tuck them in? Did he--

Nim drowned herself in her goblet. Why did she think of such mindless things? Her eyes lingered on Lucien here and there, never staying in one place for long. She didn’t like the way looking at him made her feel, all sickly warm, clammy, and angry and… ways she dare not give words to which only made her feel sicker, clammier, and angrier. The wine settled in her cheeks with a florid flush and as she refilled her goblet, she wondered what it would take to get away from him this time.

Lucien was the first to break their silence. “Why don’t you tell me something new?” he requested, twisting his goblet with one hand, perching his chin upon the other as he leaned against the table.

“What?” she asked. “Anything?”

“You heard me.”

Nim hummed to herself in thought. “Umm. Did you know that you can live without a spleen?”

Lucien narrowed his brows. “Surely, that isn’t new information, is it? Some temple healer must have learned of that ages ago.”

“New to me,” she said, smiling. “The carriage driver told me about it on my way in to town. Said his brother had to get his removed after a hunting trip gone awry. He ended up stabbed by the tusk of a wild boar. Still walking about though.”

Lucien sighed. “That’s not really what I was looking for." 

“Well, maybe you should be more precise with your questions.”

Again, Lucien sighed, then shifted forward and looked at her with a newly ignited spark of interest. “You never told me about your childhood,” he said, idly tracing an invisible pattern on the surface of the table. “Tell me something about it. Something only I will know after this conversation.”

“My childhood?” Nim twirled a strand of hair around her fingers. Her eyes grew distant for just a heartbeat. “There was nothing remarkable about it. I- I barely remember it now.”

“So think,” he said gently. “Remember.”

She stared into her goblet for a minute, passed it back and forth between her palms as she contemplated what story she could share that would not give him something to mock her for. Finally, she settled upon one. “When I was still a servant at castle Kvatch, I liked to sneak out at night and throw eggs over the garden wall.”

Lucien drank down the words with a sip of wine. “To release your anger?” he asked, grinning viciously and holding back snide laughter. “Were you always so spiteful?"

Nim shook her head, loose bangs grazing the skin of her cheek as she did so. “I don’t really know. I liked the sound they made when they broke, I guess.” She rubbed her bare arms beneath the sleeves of her robe, cradling herself closer, then looked up to Lucien intently. “There. There’s something new. Now it’s your turn.”

“My turn?”

She nodded swiftly. “To tell me something. Where were you born?”

Lucien leaned backwards, one hand falling to his lap and the other remaining on the table to trace more swirls and lines across the table. “Skingrad.”

“You grew up there?”

He nodded.

“In the posh part?”

He began to nod again, then gave a half-shrug. “It was neither the most affluent household nor the least. My family was seldom in want of things that money can buy.”

Nim gave a soft, self-indulgent snort. “I knew you came from money,” she said.

“We weren’t nobility by any standards.”

“It still explains so much.”

“Does it?” he asked, a brow raised. “Hmm.”

“What were they like, your family?”

“Cold.” The word sounded like a stone leaving his lips. “They raised me from a distance. It was the way.”

“Are any of them still alive?”

“No,” he said just as stiffly. “None of them.”

A small shiver climbed up Nim’s spine as she contemplated the implication. “Why?” she asked, not bothering to conceal the suspicion loaded in her voice.

Lucien laughed humorlessly at her expression. “I didn’t kill them if that’s what you’re wondering,” he said. “I once tried to poison my father and failed. Sometimes I feel it my deepest regret.”

“Why did you want him dead?”

Lucien shook his head. “Not yet,” he said, “It’s your turn to tell me something.”

Nim gave him a mirthless smirk and leaned forward to refill her goblet. “Are we on a date now?” She asked, her flirtatious tone more specious than substantial. Lucien gave her a quizzical look that was only made more bewildered as she met him with twinkling eyes and batted lashes. “Is this little game of questions how we finally decide whether we’re right for one another?”

“It could be,” he grinned lazily. “I was partaking in a similar activity not an hour ago over dinner. You can learn a lot about a woman with a fair few question.”

“Oh,” Nim grumbled, the sparkle in her voice gone. “Then you must find repeating yourself terribly dull.”

“No, not at all,” Lucien said. “The questions she asked were not the same, and even if they were, my answers would have been different.”

“And how do I know you’re answering me truthfully?”

“How do I know you are?”

Nim squinted at him and pursed her lips. “You don’t,” she said testily.

“Then I guess all is fair,” he said, looking pleased. “You needn’t be so defensive, Nimileth. You’ll drive yourself mad thinking everyone’s out to deceive you.”

“I don’t think it’s everyone,” she shot back at him. “Just a select few.” Lucien gave a small shrug, seeming satisfied with her response, and she waved him off. “But never mind that. What’s your question?”

“What is your earliest memory?”

Nim thought back to Kvatch, and one memory came readily to her mind. She clasped her hands in her lap and took a rough breath, sat silently as she tried to recollect others. Life in the orphanage was largely a haze to her, a flash of grey and beige and mind-numbing monotony. Days blended into one another, months into years, and so on.

“I can’t be for sure if this is truly the earliest,” she said, settling on the one she would share.

Lucien gestured for her to continue anyway. “That’s fine. Tell me what first comes to mind.”

“It was winter in Kvatch,” she began, the words forming slowly, “and um… I was cold.”

A theatrically audible sigh halted the next words on her tongue. “Riveting,” Lucien said.

Nim let her face fall flat. “And you said I was the unpleasant one.”

“You’re right, that was rude of me. Please continue.” He bowed his head, looking halfway apologetic and halfway to forming a sneer. Nim, knowing it was but an act, only stared. “Oh, come now,” he prodded her, “It was a joke. I am, in fact, on the edge of my seat.”

“I know you’re a better liar than that,” she jeered. “I feel insulted that you didn’t even try.”

“You’re offended that I didn’t lie better?”

“Yes,” she said. “Don’t you know how to properly woo a lady?”

Lucien looked sufficiently confused. “Oh?”

“You tell her sweet lies to make her want you, then drag her down into your fort that’s filled with cobwebs and bugs. If you lie to her well enough, she’ll stay and look past them. Otherwise, she’ll run. Clearly you want me gone.”

“Do I?” He hummed, as though contemplating the question. “And are we here to discuss the etiquette of courting? Since when has that interested you?”

“It doesn’t,” Nim said. “But I thought we were on a date. If you don’t already know your manners, then I dare say this won’t work out.”

“I think we’re well past pleasantries at this point, don’t you?”

“Pleasantries,” she echoed. “Is that what you call them?”

“Yes, and we’re past them.” Lucien’s mouth curved into a faint smile. “We both know you’re more trouble than you’re worth.”

"Ugh, I’m not sure why you’re here at all then.”

“For the wine obviously,” he said. “I imagine it is the same for you. Now you were telling me about winter in Kvatch.”

“Right.” Nim looked out the window, at the passersby illuminated in the torchlit darkness of of Anvil’s main street. “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, it was winter, and I was standing alone in the night. The trees were bare, but I don’t quite remember if the leaves had just died or if we were awaiting the dawn of spring.

“I was standing before a window, wondering what would happen if I just… fell out. I didn’t understand death yet. I was too young, but I did know what it felt like to fall. I was up so high. It was the second floor of the orphanage, but I thought it was the highest point on Nirn because everything-- everything just looked so far away.”

“Why were you awake?” Lucien asked.

Nim spared a glance his way. He looked very invested in her retelling, and she couldn’t for the life of her understand why. It was a mundane memory. The question he asked was not particularly intrusive and her answer, hardly noteworthy. She took a sip of her wine and cleared her throat before starting again.

“Umm. Someone had stolen my blanket, and I went to look for the grate that blew warm air up from the mistress’s quarters.”

“Why would someone do that?”

“Hell, if I know,” she scoffed and gave him a pointed look. “We were kids. Why do kids do anything?”

“I bet you were insufferable as a child.”

Nim debated scowling but admitted that it was probably true. “Only slightly more so than I am now,” she said, and Lucien’s throat quivered as he tried to hold in a laugh. She had never seen him hold in so many sneers. _He must be drunk_, she thought and brushed him off with a flippant wave of her hand.

“Yeah, yeah,” she said wearily. “I cried a lot back then too. The wailing kind with screams that leave you gasping for air. Someone must have beat the habit out of me when I was young, praise the Nine. I bet I was crying that very night, that’s why someone came to take my blanket away, said they’d give it back if I would just shut up. It happened more than once.”

“And why would you have been crying?”

Nim looked at him, debated giving him another sharp quip, but returned to the memory instead and scratched at her neck. “I think… I think I had found a book that day. Or I had stolen it from someone else’s hiding spot more likely, but I couldn’t actually read it. I remember seeing people reading in their free time, but when I tried all the letters all looked like little black scratches, and I would get so angry because I didn’t understand what they meant.”

“So you cried because you couldn’t read?”

“Yes,” she said, feeling a faint flush of embarrassment that she hid behind a long drink. “Gods, what a brat I was back then.”

“Like you said,” Lucien began between a sip of his own. “I don’t think too much has changed.”

Nim shot him a lukewarm glare. “Your turn. Why did you try to kill your father?”

“He promised to cut me out his inheritance. I wanted him dead before he could do so.”

“That doesn’t seem like you.”

Lucien paused, goblet before his lips. “No?”

“You don’t seem driven by money.”

“Well, perhaps I was at one point. People change.”

“No, I think there was something else about him,” she prodded. “There had to have been.”

“Well, I certainly never liked him, and he made it abundantly clear that the feeling was mutual.”

“What’d he do?” Lucien raised a brow and turned his head slightly, looking confused by the question. “What did he do that made you… not like him?”

He looked at her for a moment as though debating whether to answer at all, then set his wine down and relented. “There were many things he did. Perhaps more things he didn’t. For one, he was quite slothful. Never worked, just lived off his family’s wealth. He spent all his idle time drinking and chasing after the maids. It was… unpleasant to watch, as I recall.”

“What was your mother like?”

“Frightened,” he said. “All the time.”

“Why?”

But Lucien did not answer. “Who taught you how to read?” he asked instead.

“Hey,” she said sharply. “You asked me many more questions than that.”

“And so?” he said. “You went right on talking.”

Nim grumbled silently but otherwise made no complaint. “An older girl at the orphanage. She had lost her family late in life and had no one to take her in. She was very kind to me.”

She reached up to her amulet and wrapped the chain around her finger, pressing against the engravings along the edge of the gold pendant. Lucien watched her as she did so, and if he was still bitter that she no longer wore the one he had given to her, he kept his thoughts to himself.

“What was her name?” he asked.

“Franja.”

“A Nord?”

Nim nodded.

“What did she look like?”

“Like snowfall before the sun,” she said. “Had hair like wheat grain rippling in the wind. I thought she was the smartest, kindest person in all of existence, and I didn’t know people could be such a way. It’s strange. How your life can be punctuated by people sometimes. I wonder where she is now. Life before Franja was not worth remembering. It was a life before I knew kindness and before I knew books. Been kind of sweet on blondes ever since.”

“Your Khajiit,” Lucien started, “was he blonde?”

A smile crept to her lips as she thought of J'rasha, all tawny fur and golden locks. “Oh, was he ever.”

Lucien chuckled softly, the sound barely audible. “I see now where I’ve been going wrong.”

Nim shook her head as though to protest. “I like your hair,” she said without thinking, the words loose on her lips and her tongue sweet with wine. “That’s the least of your—" Catching herself, she felt heat rise to her cheeks and sear there.

Lucien smiled, showing teeth and just as quickly hid them behind a more familiar close-lipped smirk. “That may be the first compliment you’ve ever given me.”

Nim averted her eyes, hoping he’d ignore her blush if she pretended it wasn’t there. “Then let’s leave it as a novelty. It’s much more impactful that way.” She refilled his goblet to busy herself. “Tell me more about your family.”

“What do you wish to know?”

“I’m guessing you were an only child?” He nodded. “Did you have other family in Skingrad?”

“No, my father was from High Rock. All his family remains there.”

“Why was he in Cyrodiil then?”

“I suppose in his younger years, he fancied himself a scholar,” Lucien chuckled with a blunted edge, his face wrinkling at the nose and at one corner of his eyes. “He had always claimed that he came to Cyrodiil with the intention of studying at the Arcane University, but I think he saw his time in the Imperial City as little more than a summer vacation.” He shook his head in disproval. “He was not very dedicated to his work.”

“And your mother,” Nim asked. “What did she do? Where did they meet?”

“My mother’s sister was a tailor. She had a shop in the market district, and my mother worked there at the same time that my father was visiting. They met at some point that summer, and she fell pregnant with me. Romantic isn’t it? My father’s family forced him into marriage. They set him up in a charming little house in Skingrad and told him never to come home.”

“Oh,” Nim said, her expression flat. She hadn’t been expecting this. Perhaps she should have. If Lucien’s life had been so perfect, how would he have winded up where he was? “Is that why you felt he didn’t like you?”

Lucien laughed, but this time it was a hard, grating sound that scraped along his throat. “Among other things,” he said, tilting his goblet on the edge of its base. “He beat my mother and I mercilessly. With a ladle, with a belt. Sometimes he’d get creative. It might have been the only time he ever was. My father was a remarkably lifeless and uninspired individual. He only ever seemed impassioned by violence.”

Nim felt the prickling sensation return to her skin. He sounded so aloof when he spoke. She expected anger, some flare of deep-set rage come to resurface with a lick of flame, but his expression remained distant, as though talking about an insect squashed on the underside of his boot.

“What happened to your mother?” she asked him, though she wasn’t sure why. She didn’t really need to know. She could only imagine it got worse from here.

“My mother,” Lucien began with a rough sigh and turned to look out the window. “She received much worse than I. My father hardly let her leave the house, and I never understood his reason behind it because he hated seeing her there. In her bedroom. In the kitchen. In the alleyway we called a garden. He hated knowing she lived in the same house as him, yet he kept her there like a caged animal. Perhaps he enjoyed being angry all the time. He was a small, insignificant man. Maybe his hatred made him feel powerful. All that stress and his quick-temper, I think it gave him a sickly heart.”

Nim waited for him to continue, but he seemed to have completed whatever trail his thoughts were on. “I asked about your mother. You didn’t answer the question.”

“My mother,” he said again, voice softer. “Day after day she did nothing to stop him. She didn’t need him. We didn’t need him. She could have taken me and fled to her parents in Chorrol or back to her sister in the city. They begged her to come home, but... I don’t know what she saw in him, why she thought he would change. She stayed because—” Lucien sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. “Because she was weak_._”

“Did your father kill her?” Nim asked. Her voice sounded watery in her ears.

“No, the Blood Rot did. She fell sick with it one autumn and my father assumed she was faking the illness as an excuse to get away from him. He always thought she was plotting her escape, but that woman didn’t have a crafty bone in her body. She wilted to him. Waited on him hand and foot as though maybe that would make him look at her differently, but when she fell ill, he didn’t send for help. He forbade everyone but the maids from seeing her, and then he left her in her bedroom to wither away and die.”

“I- I’m sorry,” Nim stammered out. “It sounds like a terrible life.”

Lucien only shrugged as he finished his wine. He split the rest of the bottle between their goblets and then slouched backward with a faraway look. “Somebody always has it worse.”

“How old were you when it happened?” she found herself asking without thought, as though the words formed on their own. She wished she could have swallowed them.

“Ten,” he said crisply.

“And what happened to you?”

Lucien went quiet for a moment, a moment so long she thought perhaps he hadn’t heard her.

“I left,” he said. “My father became much less violent after my mother passed. I used to wonder if it was because he felt remorseful. More likely, it was because I outgrew him by the time I was fourteen and he could no longer strike me without consequence. He took to the bottle and let me do as I pleased. The money drained away slowly, and the house fell into disrepair. His heart was frail, and his sickness took him before I could summon up the courage to try to kill him again. A pity, really.”

Nim stared into her cup. Her wine was running dangerously low. She didn’t really want to know these things about Lucien, these things that lent a vaguely human shape to his shadows, but she looked forward to leaving the tavern with him even less. His story had left her feeling faintly ill, and she was thankful that the wine in her blood was working to keep color in her face.

“I must be deep in my cups,” Lucien sighed, “Listen to me prattle on.”

“When’s the last time you spoke of it?” She wasn’t sure why she was still talking, why she was asking, why she pretended she cared.

“I think it was…” Lucien tipped his head back and rolled his lips inward, licking them and staring at the ceiling. Nim watched as he swallowed, followed the motion of his throat as it bobbed up and down. “…on the night Vicente welcomed me into the Family. He was still the Speaker of our Cheydinhal Sanctuary back then, and I think my initiation may have been the first time I had ever truly been wanted.” Something sparked and died in Lucien’s eyes and he looked away, suppressing a grimace as though regretting what he had just said. He was quiet for a breath and then glanced over to Nim. He eyed the goblet in her hand. “You’re done with your wine,” he noted.

“I am.”

Lucien rose to his feet and straightened his clothes. He looked down at her and reached out his hand, palm upward and beckoning. “Then let us go,” he said, and his voice was terribly cold.

Nim stared at him, then down to his palm, into the creases and across the ghost of old scars that lie there. She slid her hand into his, knowing that as he brought her to her feet, he could only lead her to ruin. Knowing, yet hoping that maybe this time she would not let him.


	45. Prelude to Bruise

**Chapter 45: Prelude to Bruise**

Nim did not realize how tipsy she was until she left the Count’s Arms. Being a spindly five-foot-two Wood Elf, this was hardly a rare occurrence for her, but it didn’t help that she had not yet eaten dinner after a long day’s travel. She blamed her Speaker for that, blamed his distraction and his generous offer of Surille's.

Lucien guided them through the winter night, holding her steady, an arm slung around her waist, and she let him keep it there even though she was perfectly capable of guiding herself. They pulled away from the tavern's glow and further into the sobering air, brisk and clear and salt tinted against her nose. The sky above was clouded, and so they walked in darkness save the beams of starlight that broke through the drifting veil.

They had only managed a few paces down the cobblestone road when Nim stopped, tugging on Lucien’s sleeve to draw his attention toward her.

“I suppose you can tell me now,” she said.

Lucien looked at her sideways. “Here?”

She nodded, the location agreeable, and as she stared up at him awaiting his explanation, Lucien glanced around the dark of the main road. His brow was wrinkled, expression severe and he seemed to be searching for something in the silhouettes of the buildings and the hollow spaces between them. For what, she could not guess. The street was mostly empty save the foot traffic from the tavern behind them and the distant pair of watchmen patrolling the city gate by the light of their torches. Around them stood only the shadows of houses and trees. Lucien seemed to be staring straight at them. They stretched, still and silent, beneath the moons.

Finally, his eyes rested upon her. “We are standing in an open street,” he said.

“And?” But Lucien did not continue. “Wow,” she drawled. “What a keen observation, Lucien. Will you seek to get that published?” 

Lucien narrowed his glare, the sharpness somewhat blunted by the lull of his eyelids, but nevertheless, his expression held grim. “This is not the place to have our conversation,” he said, voice quiet but clear and the gravity in it plainly resonant. “Come. We should find somewhere private to speak.”

The mood between them felt suddenly heavier, weighted and stagnant like the inside of a crypt. Refusing to surrender the buoyancy of her mild buzz, Nim turned to the crisp air, hoping the next breeze would blow that heaviness off of her, and when Lucien tried to continue guiding her further down the road, she peeled away from him. She pointed to a large stone planter by the city’s main gate from which the skeleton of a leafless tree and withered sage shrubs waved softly.

“There, yeah?” she said, swinging her grocery bag back and forth in the direction of the planter. “It’s all shadowed and quiet-like. We can speak there.”

Lucien shook his head, not bothering to look. “No.”

“How bout we go for a walk on the beach then? It’s lovely at night. We can stick our feet in the shoreline and look for little mudcrabs. I bet even you would find some joy in that, right? In the fresh ocean air? Just don’t get any ideas about where to put your hands, and we can pretend it’s the end to a perfectly pleasant date.”

As she spoke, Lucien stared at her blankly but by the time she had finished her suggestion, the shadow of a smile had grown on his face. He stepped toward her, closing the small distance between them, and Nim swayed on her feet, leaning in and pulling away as she swung her bag at her side.

Lucien took her chin in his fingers, and lifted her to face him. She stilled, shrouded from the watery light of the moons by his looming figure. Inches away from the hollow of his throat, she inhaled, and he smelled differently tonight, the scent of smoke and pine and days old blood conspicuously absent, scrubbed clean. In its place was the faint aroma of witch hazel and citrus. A veneer.

“You know just how to grate on me, don’t you?” he said.

“Grate?” she echoed, her mouth growing dry, and she licked at her lips to drive the feeling back. “I thought the suggestion was perfectly pleasant.”

Lucien hummed as he stared her down. “And yet you were never this pleasant in our previous time together. Why now when we’ve consequential matters to discuss?”

“Because I’m insufferable,” she said, and let herself linger in his grasp, fighting the urge to tense as he brushed his thumb across her lower lip.

"You taunt me."

"You make yourself easy prey."

A soft sigh, a breath barely audible. “We could stay like this.”

Nim blushed faintly, felt relief when she knew he would not be able to see it. _Like what?_ She didn't dare ask.

Lucien was silent as he held her, his sly smile unwavering, but behind the deep oak of his irises, his eyes gleamed. Nim searched his face and grew nervous to find it was not a lecherous glimmer that greeted her, for that would have been little more than a well-expected nuisance by now. Instead, she found something coldly leaden weighing them down. Something rueful, a flicker of pain perhaps, or regret. The dryness in her mouth returned. She hadn’t seen such a look on Lucien more than a handful of times. Once before the purification, perhaps once after.

_How consequential could these matters be_, she wondered and felt her heart begin to skip. Just what did he want with her this time? She wished she hadn’t approached him. She wished she had turned and fled when she had the chance.

“Come,” Lucien said. He pulled her closer, close enough that she could feel his breath against her forehead, and her stomach churned at the toneless calm of his voice. “Let’s find somewhere to sit and talk in comfort.”

“We were just sitting down,” she said softly. “Let’s go back to the tavern then.”

“Did I not say somewhere private?”

“A room at the tavern?” She proposed, then immediately regretted the suggestion. An inn room was too small a space to be sharing with Lucien. Too warm, too gentle, and she felt the skin beneath her robes prickle at the thought of being trapped within such narrow walls.

She imagined herself there, sitting in the amber light of a single oil lamp and across from her, Lucien and his roaming gaze. And when it was time to leave, would she? Or would she linger, drawn in by his ensnaring heat and the ice-melt of his eyes as he whispered more _pretty words _into her lips. And then she imagined herself with him, back pressed up against the door of the room, Lucien’s mouth at her throat and her hands grasping for all they could reach.

The thought rattled inside her skull like a sheet of tin, and she shook the picture from her head, horrified that it dared make an appearance. She pulled his hand away from her face and turned to look back toward the barren tree. Never before had such a cold, open expanse of night felt so welcome and appealing.

_Damned wine. Half a bottle and I can’t form a coherent thought_. She cursed herself sharply, biting down on her tongue until it stung. _It’s the damned wine._

“No, actually I um—” she spluttered. “I think out here is fine.”

“Don’t you live here?” Lucien asked, knowing full well the answer.

“Yes.”

“Then the solution is abundantly obvious. Let us go there.”

“Let us not,” she said, matching his even tone. “It’s not a place for you.”

He pulled back with a curious smile and wide, glistening eyes. “And who is it for?”

“It, uh, It’s for me. Duh,” she said clumsily and pulled herself into her own arms.

There were memories in that house she did not want tainted by Lucien. Memories of blissful solitude and of scraping loneliness, of the mundane and the merry. She made new memories with Raminus in that house, and they were already singed at the edges by the ghost of Lucien’s demands. She looked down at the emerald ring on her finger, a reminder of the life that awaited her back at the University and winced. Those were _her_ memories, _her_ dreams. Lucien would never take them from her completely.

“Let’s just go back to the Inn,” she said, shaking the doleful glaze from her eyes. “We can speak softly.” Lucien looked less than convinced, an eyebrow raised. “Please?” she tried. “I’ll sit close and whisper into your ear if you so need me too.”

“We really must do something to hone those fine listening skills of yours,” he groused, and attempted to direct them toward the end of the main street once more. “Somewhere private, I said. Not the inn. Your house is just down the road.”

Nim pulled out of his grasp, attempting to be sly as she wriggled free but failing. “Yes, and the Count’s Arms is just right behind us.” She gestured over her shoulder. “Or how about we go sit at that tree? There are some nice benches there.”

Before Lucien could protest, she darted off into the darkness toward the planter, and he followed after her with a sigh, much like a man reigning in a hyper puppy.

Plopping down on the bench, Nim set her groceries in her lap and pulled the collar of her robes up to shield herself from the mild nip in the breeze. “Come on,” she said, patting the stone seat beside her. “Sit down with me.”

Lucien did not. “I am serious, Nimileth,” he said.

“Yes, you’re always so serious. Not a cheerful bone in your body. I’m sure we could have drank the night away and by the time we reached the bottom of the bottle, work would still be the only thing on your mind. Can’t we just sit and talk for a bit? I know you love to do so.”

“Am I not attempting to speak with you right now?” His voice carried a generous touch of ice.

“I don’t want to discuss work,” she pouted. “It’s not like you were in a rush to tell me in the first place, so why don’t you just keep it to yourself now, hmm?”

“You will not be so dismissive when I explain—"

“Fine. I’ll start,” she cut in before he could manage out another word, “why do you live in that musty dungeon?”

Lucien blinked at her. “Fort Farragut is not a dungeon.”

“What is it then?”

“My home,” he said crossly.

“Okay, but it is still musty, windowless, and full of bugs.”

Lucien released a deep huff through his nose. “We can discuss your trivial interests in interior design later.”

Nim looked over to Lucien, her vision just barely swimming at the edges. For the moment his company was tolerable, and though she wasn’t sure how long the sentiment would last, she endeavored to prolong it. She did not care how obvious it was that she attempted to skirt around whatever conversation her Speaker intended to have, never mind the fact that she had approached him about it in the first place. Even half-sober, she knew it was a conversation that would only lead to trouble, and if she could hold onto this moment of tingling, wine-tinged indifference she would. She fished around in her brain for a new topic of discussion, no matter how vapid or meaningless, anything that might keep him from speaking on matters of Dark Brotherhood business.

“New cologne?” she asked and reached into her bag for a log of dried sausage. She nibbled at the casing, attempting to pry it off with her teeth.

“Aftershave,” Lucien said, quirking a brow as he watched her. “Were you… smelling me?”

“In passing. You smell different tonight, like you’ve bathed.”

His brows narrowed quickly at that, and he scrunched his nose with a show of offense. “I bathe regularly.”

Nim rolled her eyes. “Oh, look at you,” she said and gnawed into her sausage like a dog working it’s teeth on a stick of raw hide, “a fully grown man capable of tending to basic hygiene. How can anyone resist?”

“As tough the scent of death has ever driven you away,” he jeered.

“No, that’s why I love fighting necromancers. I’m reminded of you every time.”

Lucien watched her pick pieces of casing from her teeth. She attempted to spit them out, only for them to settle and stick on her tongue. She tried harder to blow them off and he snorted smugly at her fruitless efforts.

“Sometimes I wonder if you were born in a barn,” he said.

“And even if I was, it would still be cleaner than Fort Farragut.” She offered Lucien her sausage, teeth marks and all. He declined.

“Your loss,” she smirked.

“Are we done here? Can we go?”

“I’m eating.”

“You have made it quite clear that you can talk and chew at the same time.”

“Yes, because I’m a woman of many talents,” she grinned and batted her long lashes. “Isn’t that why you fancy me so?”

Lucien mouth fell open as though to respond, but no sound escaped him. Perhaps he was more drunk than he had let on or perhaps it was simply a play of the light, but Nim could have sworn she saw the Speaker blush.

“Say, what do you think of Nine?” she asked, perking up with a new topic before he dragged the conversation away.

Lucien pinched his face, recoiling back with a measure of disbelief as he reabsorbed her question. “I do not think of them,” he said and looked down at her with humorous brown eyes.

“And why not?”

“Whether they exist or not changes nothing in this life.”

“But then where do you derive your sense of purpose?” She asked in between more bites. “Your drive, your… your reason for being?”

“Such answers lie within the Void,” he stated simply. “We live to bring glory to the Dread Father, and the Night Mother guides our hand to act in accordance with the Tenets. It is simple. There is little to derive.”

Nim stared at him with pursed lips and then shook her head. “I don’t understand that,” she confessed. “Sithis is chaos. How can you abstract any meaning from chaos?”

“Ahh, my dear Sister, but therein lies the beauty.” He smiled, too fond to be anything less than sinister. “Sithis is endless and ever-changing. Before him, there was nothing, and he sundered from that Void everything and all you can see.”

“Umm… okay.”

“With each soul we offer to our Dread Father, that Void swells, and we become something greater than ourselves.” His eyes glowed as he spoke, villainously bright, and it was frightening, how genuine in his reverence he seemed.

He looked down at Nim, who was now chewing with a marked lack of enthusiasm. “You still do not see the honor in our work,” he said, sounding disappointed. Nim shrugged.

“You do as Sithis wills. I know as much.”

“Then you know I serve Sithis with purpose. My purpose is to serve.”

“I mean… I guess,” Nim sighed, ripping off another strip of casing to reveal the red flesh of her sausage. “That’s a rather circular reason for being.”

“It is the truth.”

“I just thought you’d have something more…. grandiose in mind.”

Lucien’s face grew wolfish, all teeth and sharp edges. “Was it not you who told me I was a simple man?”

“Well,” she mumbled. “Who am I to judge anyway? Chaos seems to be my purpose in this life too.”

Pleased, his smile, charming and smug. Nim bit back the urge to roll her eyes.

“But you didn’t join the Brotherhood until you were older.”

“I was not so old,” Lucien countered. “But so?”

“So if not from the Divines and their doctrine, from where did you learn your sense of morality?”

Genuine confusion struck his face. “My what?”

“Who taught you your right from your left?” she asked, and at his perplexed expression, she shook her head. “That’s not what I meant. Umm, your right from wrong. Who taught you that?”

Lucien fell quiet, and just as soon the conversation had gone stale. He stood there staring at her, the sparkle in his eyes gone, as though wondering how long he could ignore her if he simply held silent.

“Well?” she asked.

“Nimileth, enough of this idle prattle. We really do need to talk.”

“I’m talking right now aren’t I?” she blustered and wagged her sausage at him. “Are you going to answer or are you going to stand there being so rude?”

“If I answer, will you remove yourself from that bench and come with me?” He asked politely but the undertone was rife with impatience.

“Possibly.”

At that, Lucien palmed his forehead and groaned. “I don’t know,” he breathed out roughly. “I can’t say I learned much of virtue growing up. My family was not exactly an exemplar of moral righteousness, nor were they the Gods-fearing type. Perhaps I never learned at all.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” she muttered, wondering what else she could have expected from the Speaker. With a show of reluctance, she tucked her sausage away, rose to her feet, and hooked her arm in Lucien’s. “Now are we going back to the inn?” Lucien did not respond, but instead guided her by the arm toward her manor. She walked beside him, pouting all the while. “You are taking me toward my house, but I’m still not letting you inside.”

“Why?” he humored her. “Something in there you don’t want me to see?”

“Yes.”

A pause of surprise, and Lucien halted in his tracks. Nim’s feet did not catch on so quickly, and she skidded across the cobblestone blocks, fumbling over them. She recovered, and her mind was far too busy with thinking up ways to further distract the eager Speaker than to find herself embarrassed by the misstep.

“Are you hiding something in there?” he asked, throwing a curious glance down at her. Nim continued to shuffle alongside him as he returned to a walking pace.

“Yes, I’m hiding everything,” she said flippantly. “All of it. That’s my home and you’re not to intrude upon it again.”

“Are you still sour about our introduction? I thought we had well moved past it.”

“Oh, is a proper invitation one of those pleasantries we can ignore now?” She frowned. “Yes, I am sour, and here you are trying to invite yourself inside again. I am so sour about it that I will stand outside and guard the door all night to keep you out if I must.”

“There’s nothing in there that I haven’t already seen,” he told her matter-of-factly.

“So?” Nim shot back. “Doesn’t mean you can see it again. Not my paintings or my bookshelves or my ornaments or any other personal affections.”

“Is seeing you unclothed not personal to you?”

“Mmm,” she hummed into his sleeve as she allowed him to carry her forward. “No.”

Finally, they came to the cobblestone fence of Benirus Manor. Lucien stilled beside her, and she looked up to find him gesturing toward the front gate.

“You don’t know how to lift a latch?” She sneered, releasing her grip on his arm to approach the fence line of her front yard. She unlatched the gate and looked over her shoulder, found him standing there like a statue, eyes as lifeless as stone as he watched and waited.

_So dramatic_, she thought with a roll of her eyes and passed through, letting the gate slam shut behind her as she wound up the steps to her veranda. Lucien followed at her heels.

“Okay, let's talk here then,” she said staring down at him from the top step. “Or in the garden around back if you’d prefer.”

Lucien walked up the steps and glanced over to the green copper door. “Will you not let us inside?”

“No.”

“Open the door, _please_,” he said, voice surprisingly delicate. “Do not make this difficult.”

“I’m making this easy,” she countered, hands akimbo. “I’m giving you options. Porch or the garden. Your choice.”

Lucien shifted on his feet and then ran a hand through his hair, pulling loose a few strands from his ponytail. “Why can’t we play nice, Nimileth?”

“Since when have we ever?”

“Will I find someone inside?” he asked, an indulgent, yet tired smirk on his lips.

“No, and what would you even do if you found someone else there?”

He stared pensively at the windowpane, as though perhaps he could see into the darkness within if he stared hard enough. “I suspect that I would feel compelled to bleed him dry,” he said. “Whether I would act on that urge or not, I cannot say.”

“And if my lover was a woman, like that pretty girl at the tavern?” She bounced her brows above her as she questioned him. “Would you feel the need to murder her too?”

“Hmm, I suppose I—” A pause. Lucien cocked his head. “What do you mean by that?”

“What do _you _mean by that?”

“No, what did you say before? Just now.”

Nim looked over her shoulder into the empty street, then back to Lucien. “What did I say when?”

“When you were talking about being with a woman.”

“Was I?”

“Have you?”

“I have. Have you?”

Lucien opened his mouth to respond in the affirmative and then quickly narrowed his eyes into a blunted glare. “What do you think?”

Nim mirrored the expression. “I’m unsure.”

Taking a deep breath, Lucien let his eyes fall closed. “We are done with this nonsense now,” he said, forcing a calm upon his straining voice. “Open the door so that we may speak inside.”

“No.”

“By Sithis,” he hissed. “I never knew how much I despised that word until I met you. Open the door or I will find my own way in.”

Nim shrugged and leaned her back against the wall. “Fine, take your boots off when you enter. I’ll head back to the planter and wait for you to grow bored.”

Lucien stared at her for a long moment, as though he were attempting to blow her away with the winter gale in his eyes. He stalked back and forth across the porch, tapping the windows and eyeing the stone pillars that supported the overhanging roof. He leapt up, grabbed hold of the clay tiles that lined the perimeter and began to pull himself to the rood. Nim didn’t know whether to laugh at such a display of determination or find herself deeply disturbed.

After a few seconds of hoisting, Lucien stopped himself suddenly, lowering himself and dangling from the eaves. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered and dropped back down to the porch. “I ought to pick the lock myself. You are fortunate that I am not sober, and that the limits of my patience have been substantially dulled.”

“Can I let myself in and then speak to you through the window?” Nim asked, fiddling with the key chain in her pocket.

“I am telling you now that when you open the door, I will enter.”

Nim guessed that if she was in just a slightly more rational state of mind, she would have found this behavior terribly aggravating, but now as he wandered back and forth across her porch with that impatient glower, she couldn’t help but think of him as a strutting game bird on display.

“Can I at least get a hint about what you wish to discuss?”

A laugh, hoarse and full of incredulity. “Cooperate with me, and I promise you will not remain uninformed for long.”

“I don’t understand the ritual behind this,” she grumbled as Lucien continued his pacing. “You could have just told me at the planter, instead we have to do this horrible dance back and forth.”

“You and your damned planter.” He laughed again, but this time the humor had slipped from his eyes.

“We could have stayed at the inn,” she said, disregarding the sudden heaviness of his stare. “I was plenty comfortable with the music and the wine. You’ve been staying there, haven’t you? We could have just gone to your room.”

Lucien half-turned to her, halting in his stride. “You would not have appreciated what you found in my room.”

“What? I-- what does that mean?” She met him with a confused frown, her expression growing sour when he provided no clarification. “More cobwebs, huh?” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“Yes, of course. More cobwebs. I bring them everywhere I go.”

“Unsurprising. You’ve always been a bit spidery.”

“My limbs are not so long.”

“It’s not your dimensions that make you so. It’s your eight eyes always watching from the shadows.” Before Lucien could reply, Nim started again. “Anyway, why my house?” Through the foggy haze of her numbed brain, her suspicions began to resurface, growing brighter as a grimness took to Lucien’s features “Why are you so adamant about speaking here and now? Surely if it was so serious you would have sent a letter.”

Lucien paused, his lips parting, but he just as soon swallowed down whatever words had been forming on his tongue. He looked at Nim in careful deliberation, as though rearranging his sentence in something more agreeable. 

“I was going to tell you at a different time,” he said, “when I had more information to support my case.”

“Your case for what?”

“You must understand that I wanted to present this to you with adequate proof. I did not anticipate your arrival in Anvil, but now that we are both here—” He paused again. “Let us speak somewhere quiet and comfortable as to avoid any… hysteria.”

“That’s not very comforting,” Nim said, narrowing her brows. “And I am not prone to hysteria, thank you very much. I think my outbursts have been very well justified given our past.”

Lucien nodded toward the door. She did not move an inch. He reached up with one hand to rub at the bridge of his nose. “Must I resort to pleading with you?”

_Just what does he want with me now_, she wondered for what must have been the fifth time that evening. With a sigh, she hiked her grocery bag up to her shoulder and pulled out her keys, turning toward the door. “Fine, but I don’t want you thinking you’re welcome to stay the night.”

From behind her, she heard him snort.

_Damned Speaker sure knows how to dampen a perfectly fine winter night with all this talk of work_, she thought, but she supposed that he was right; she was still his Silencer and she had been the one who approached him in the first place. She had been so upset to find him there in _her_ city, in _her _tavern, but now she sorely wished she had thought the decision through before that initial anger fueled her into such myopic action. Now she was stuck with him for the remainder of the evening, and Gods above knew how well such scenarios panned out for the two of them before.

She glanced around her, forcing Lucien’s shroud out of her periphery. The dim and distant lamplight barely reached the edge of her porch, and the surrounding neighborhood streets were quiet, most night traffic concentrated further up the main road. In Anvil, the rowdiest of citizens and tavern-goers lay further west along the docks, and though on some nights she could hear the drunken hollers from her porch, tonight she could hear nothing save the jingling of her keys as she thumbed through the keyring. One for the first lock, another for the second, a final for the third.

Lucien stepped a few paces closer to her, and she could feel the heat of him at her back, forced herself to ignore it. She set her key in the lock, and he loomed over her shoulder, his shadow stretching across the green copper door, ever watchful. He was so eager, so persistent it made her squirm. She unlocked the first deadbolt, then the second, but when she came to the final lock, she stalled.

“So, about that hint,” she said, her voice lilting. “You mentioned I was involved in this somehow. Why would I be hysterical?”

Lucien’s breath scraped past his lips. He looked down at her with resigned fatigue.“You make me regret mentioning anything at all."

“It must be pretty bad if you think there’s a reason I’d throw a fit. I can’t imagine anything driving me to hysteria unless it--” Nim’s mind flashed to thoughts of the Purification and she swallowed down dryly. She turned her head away from the door to look up at Lucien and pulled the keys free from the lock. If the regret on his face wasn’t apparent before, it certainly was now.

“Is it--” she faltered. “Is it about Lorise?”

“Not directly, no.”

“Indirectly?”

“It affects her,” he said. “Perhaps more than you. At the moment, I am uncertain.”

Nim’s eyes went wide, her blood cold. She turned to face Lucien completely, and she found he was no longer staring at her, but down at the keys dangling from her index finger, and he was staring at them quite intently. She squeezed them into her fist, shielding them from view.

“Did someone else die?” she asked. “Someone else in the Brotherhood?”

“No. No one else has died, but….”

“But what?” Silence so dense it felt like another layer upon her skin. “Lucien?

“Are we going to go inside?” His voice had gone flat in his throat, but his eyes were alert, watching her for the slightest of movement like a dog ready to give chase.

“But what?” She pressed again.

“I am afraid more are in danger.”

“Why?”

He paused, jaw clenched and eyes swimming deep in the throes of careful thought, weighing his options. “I will not say anymore until we are inside.”

“Tell me,” Nim urged him, keeping her stare level. “You mentioned Lorise. Why? Why would she be in danger? Does it have to do with her Sanctuary, her Speaker? Has… has something happened to Mathieu?”

“It—” Lucien swallowed, started again, his voice smoother this time. “It is related to Bellamont, yes.”

“What about him? Is he alright? I saw him recently, and he—” Lucien’s eyes flickered and Nim choked back on her sentence. Something in his stare told her he was already aware that she and Mathieu had run into each other here. She wondered how much else he knew.

“Did you come to Anvil in search of him?” she asked, slowly piecing her thoughts together. Lucien nodded. “Why?”

“There are things about him that the rest of the Black Hand must be made aware of. I seek to bring those secrets to light.”

She stared at him, expression quizzical and almost unbelieving. “This is about Mathieu?”

“It is about Bellamont, and it is about something far greater than him,” he stated darkly. “He is a very dangerous man, Nimileth. It isn’t wise for you to spend so much time with him.”

“I don’t understand then. Did he tell you—” She faltered. What was she going to say? _Did he tell you we had a drink together once or twice? Did he tell you that we kissed, that we almost spent the night together before he broke down in my bed? Did he tell you he met my boyfriend, that he knows I am in love with another man?_

Nim grimaced, her mouth filling with the acrid taste of fear. “Lucien, he is an assassin,” she said testily. “Did you really drag me over here to tell me that a dangerous man is dangerous? I know this.”

“No, I did not, and you are wearing me down,” he said, hoarseness seeping back into his voice. “Open the door.”

She kept her eyes on him and squeezed the keys in her fist until her tendons stretched taut over her knuckles. The pieces were scattered. Something was not clicking. Why was Lucien acting so secretive, and what it could possibly have to do with Mathieu? What did it have to do with her? Was this petty jealousy? Did Lucien come to reprimand her for spending time with another Speaker? She didn’t think Lucien could be bothered about such small, paltry matters.

Nothing made sense, and even though she had sobered up quickly in the past five minutes, her mind felt dull and blunted. She looked to Lucien. If it was so serious, he could just tell her now. Why was he trying to get her alone inside her house? And Gods, why did she bring him here? She squeezed her fist tighter, fingers curled and paling at her side.

“I don’t think we do need to speak,” she said, quiet but firm. “I don’t know what game you’re trying to play right now, but I’m done. If I let you into my house, I know-- I know you won’t leave me tonight.”

Lucien laughed bitterly. “My dear self-absorbed little Nimileth. I did not come here to—”

“I’m sorry I interrupted you at dinner,” she said, interrupting him once more. “Thank you for the wine and for your company, but I think our evening is now over.”

The laughter, still curling around Lucien’s lips, knocked against her sternum. It was thick and dark, blood before the moonlight. “It is not,” he said. 

NIm withdrew against the door, leaving mere inches of winter night between them. “You said you didn’t come to Anvil for me,” she said and steeled her spine against the hard surface at her back. “Why then are we still speaking?”

Lucien fixed her with a pointed look, black as onyx, a harsh breath leaving through his nostrils. “Give me your keys.”

“No. I won’t.”

“Then I will take them,” he informed her as uncaring as one blinks. She shook her head and Lucien reached down for her wrist. “Everything must be like pulling teeth with you,” he sneered, tugging on the key ring looped about her finger. “Nothing is ever simple.”

“I don’t want to let you in,” she told him.

“Let go.”

He tugged again, and although Nim knew he could yank it from her grasp sooner than she’d give it up, he did not pull harder.

“Tell me out here,” she said, keeping her voice even. “Why can’t you?”

“Nimileth, I am losing my patience.”

“So be a good boy and keep it on a leash next time,” she spat back at him, “what do you want me to do, help you look for it?”

Without warning, Lucien lurched forward and pressed Nim flush against the door. The wine bottle in her bag jutted firmly into her side, sticking her in the ribs and grinding against the bone. He held her there by the shoulder, and she wriggled, keeping her expression blank despite the discomfort.

“Get off of me,” she gritted out to keep herself from snarling. “You cannot throw me around as you please.”

“I have only been trying to protect you,” he said, voice low and full of umbrage, “but you must fight me every step of the way. How predictable.”

Though he spoke with a controlled measure of steel, his muscles tensed at his jaw. To her surprise, he relaxed his grip on her arm, letting her pull away from the door while still holding her arms in his grasp. He appeared to be holding something back, his temper, his urge to throw her against the walls perhaps, and Nim could not tell whether this was simply another trick to intimidate or if Lucien truly was restraining himself from hurting her.

“Protect me from what?” she asked.

“From Mathieu.”

A small gasp batted its way down into her lungs. “What are you talking about?” she said, intending to bark but through the dryness in her throat, the words were barely an octave higher than a whisper.

“Am I not attempting to explain it to you now?” He hissed. “Does everything I say to you go in one ear and out the next?”

Nim forced herself not to fight against his weight, knowing her energy would be wasted. “So be out with it then,” she said venomously. “Tell me, and let’s be done.”

Lucien gripped her tighter. “Listen to me close,” he said. “Bellamont is the one behind all of these recent deaths in the Dark Brotherhood. He is the one who murdered Banus, and he is the one responsible for the family we had lost before you joined.”

Color leached from her face, and she could not contain the confusion as it wound its way across her features. This time, she could form no words in her mouth, not even the rise of a gasp. She stared back at Lucien, stared deep into those endless groves of hickory bark but could do nothing except hold still as the blood drained from her.

“It’s alright now,” he said, petting the hair at her temple with the back of his hand. Somehow, somewhere he had found the gall to smile. It was a polite, manufactured grin. Cold and sharply unpleasant. “Be a good girl and let loose your keys.”

Nim clenched her fist tighter. “It can’t be so,” she whispered, reedy and toneless.

“It is.” Lucien reached down and took her balled fist into his hand. He rubbed his thumb across her knuckles, fingers working to coax hers open.

“But that means…” She shook her head, the thought inconceivable. “You are trying to tell that Mathieu is the traitor.”

“Ah." His eyes mirthless in their laughter. "So you do listen.”

“But I purified Cheydinhal. Explain that to me.”

“Bellamont deceived us,” he said briskly. “He convinced the Black Hand to order a cleansing unjustly.”

“No.” Nim shook her head again, this time faster, with more panic. “I purified Cheydinhal. The traitor is gone.”

“The traitor was not there. I know how this sounds. You must trust me. Mathieu had deceived us all.”

“Trust?" The word left her mouth as a crackle. "No, Lucien. You-- You’re wrong.”

He moved in on her again, pulling her closer, one arm drawing her to his chest and his other hand still prying at her fingers. She pressed against him.

“Be still,” he said with infuriating calmness and continued to graze her back, trailing his fingers up and down the length of her spine. “I will explain it all to you.”

“How long have you known?” she asked, tongue barbed, and she cringed at his touch. What did he think to do now, provide her comfort?

“Let us go inside and discuss this in detail.”

“How long?” she echoed, but Lucien held his ground.

“I will not say anymore out here.” And this time his voice was so gentle and unhurried that she swore it was not his. She pulled against him, far enough to lift her face and meet his eye.

“You knew.”

When Lucien did not deny it, she felt her chin begin to quiver. She forced herself to press back the stinging promise of tears and she scanned the street behind him, found it was still empty and dark, only the yellow lamplight of the tavern district glowing like a torch bug in the distance.

She had to escape him, but escape to where? How could she get away now? Only the open night lay beyond and behind her, the stone walls of her home. Could it keep him out? Could she risk running away?

With her fingers hidden inside her sleeve, Nim readied an alteration spell and worked the remaining lock on her door. She had to weave it gently, to release the tumblers one by one so Lucien would not hear them unlock.

“You knew,” she said again. “When you ordered me to kill them, you already knew.”

Lucien shook his head and set his jaw. He allowed her to draw away, though only slightly and not out of arm’s reach. He looked down at her, worrying the corner of his mouth.

“Hear me first. It is not as it appears.”

A snap from within her, a heartstring come undone.

“Get off of my porch,” she bit out, and when he did not move, she pushed against him with her clenched fists. “Get away from my house! Get away from me!”

Lucien kept his grasp on her light but insistent as he backed her against the door. “I told you that you would become hysterical,” he chided her, and thought it was a mocking taunt, he had said it without any harshness. Instead, he looked down at her as one does a puppy when it snarls, fully aware there was no strength behind it’s bite.

And it was true. Against him, she was so small and powerless, and the realization tore into her from all sides like a mouth of pointed teeth. She could do so little to fight him except run, except hide and wait until he found her again.

Nim squeezed her eyes closed, head spinning, and unable to decipher whatever Lucien mumbled from above her as he closed in.

“Get off of me!” she shrieked again and pushed him with all the strength she could muster, but Lucien did not stir. Her voice cracked with a wail as she lashed out again, and this time she felt her heart explode into a burst of glowing embers.

She fought him. Pressing her palms flat against his chest, she let a small jolt of electricity sear and crackle as she shoved him. Lucien staggered back, eyes wide with shock. He clutched the pillars of the porch as he regained his balance and soon his eyes narrowed, feral with rage. Nim did not wait for them to seek her out. In the brief seconds of freedom from his grasp, she reached behind her for the doorknob and slipped inside, fighting off Lucien’s hands as he attempted to push his way in too.

Darkness engulfed her. Darkness and the rattle of metal chains and turning locks, the yanking and banging from the other side of the door. Her heart hammered in her throat as Lucien growled and slew all manners of blood-shaded curses through the copper metal, but soon the noises died, and she did not know whether to be relieved or terrified by the sudden absence of all sound. Where could he have gone? She did not know him to be a man who gave up so swiftly.

Silence filled her ears like cotton, and then she heard it. _Thud, thud, thud _and the scraping of clay tiles grinding together. He was on her roof. Soon he would be at the balcony, and she could not remember if she had locked the door. Her heart froze in her chest.

Before she could think to move, her legs raced upstairs and she swung open her bedroom door. She crossed her room to reach the second-floor hallway, and stopped dead in her tracks, her heart sinking to the pit of her abdomen like a rock. The creak of a rusted hinge split the emptiness of her bedroom and a burst of Light footsteps tapped their way across the tile. Lucien’s silhouette entered calmly from the doorway on other side. He looked to her through the moonlit dark, all emotion in his face sapped away, and then to the emptied drawers of her dresser and her half-packed trunk at the foot of the bed.

“Are you going someplace?” Lucien asked coolly.

"No." She swallowed, felt the sharp sting of needles slide down the back of her tongue. "It's like you said, it is not as it appears."

Lucien turned to face her, expression utterly impassible, the unspoken question like a knife before her throat.

_Are you running from me again?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this and the next chapter were supposed to be one, but they got too long so I had to end on a sort-of cliff hanger. Hope to post the next soon :)


	46. Bruise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this chapter is long and *exhausting* and I 100% recognize that I should have trimmed and condensed it, but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Also, I am sorry if elements of this story are painfully repetitive and/or running in circles. I think some of the scenes have become self-indulgent at this point. I promise that it will indeed have an end :[
> 
> And for those of you who have been enjoying it thus far anyway – Bless your patience. You motivate me so much!

**Chapter 46: Bruise**

Lucien stalked forward, his face little more than shadow save the glittering whites of his eyes. Nim debated falling back into the darkness of the stairwell and disappearing. And then where would she go? Her house was not endless, its corners finite, and though her basement was a winding labyrinth, it too was bound by walls. But if she didn’t move away from him soon, he would be upon her, and then what? Then where would she go?

Lucien stepped into the starlight that scattered through the curtains. She saw the blood in his eyes, so thick it could drown her. He nudged the full trunk that lay on the floor between them with his foot. Inside, her clothes lay neatly folded, jewelry tucked away in wooden boxes and shoes wrapped in canvas parcels.

“You have been packing,” he noted, distant and smooth like winter mist. “Why?”

Nim forced the chords of her voice into motion. “I wasn’t,” she said, attempting to match the frigid temperature of his question.

“You were.”

“No, I was just reorganizing my wardrobe.”

Hard laughter, cruel and cold as stone. Lucien studied her though the gloom and then tested another step toward her. She tensed but did not flee. “Where do you plan to take all of your belongings?”

“I’m not taking them anywhere.”

“You lie,” he said. “Do not do so again.”

A hot sensation gripped Nim, sharp and bilious like the venom of a snake. “Then it’s none of your Godsdamned business where I take them.” She held her ground, standing as tall as she could even as he towered over her, even as he dwarfed her by the sheer weight of the presence he commanded.

“Were you planning on leaving?”

“Don’t get any closer to me.”

“You’ve moved them,” he said, “your pets and your plants. You have taken them away. Where to?”

Lucien was only a foot away from her now, staring down with eyes so deeply black she could have been staring into the bottom of a well. She felt like a rabbit before a tethered animal full of teeth and at the end of its leash. His breath was silent as it left him, but at eye-level, she watched his chest rise, swift and shallow, and she knew the straps that kept him muzzled risked tearing at the slightest of strain.

“Where to?” He asked again, and a roughness, like the low rumble at the start of growl touched the edge of his voice. It rolled through her, boiling in her blood, and her voice filled her ears before she even felt it leave her.

“Guess.”

Lucien’s eyes flashed, the blaze of fire setting alight the bleeding darkness between them. “You dare run from me again?” he seethed, clasping her by her shoulders and raising her inches before his face.

Terribly familiar, the burn of his heat, his hands squeezing around her, and his eyes like that of rabid animal’s. Wild. Untamable. She wondered if she should paralyze him, if that would give her enough time to escape or only prolong her capture momentarily. Why was she always returned to this place? What must she do to get away? Not even here, in her own house, could she be free of him and she knew not whether to laugh or to cry, so instead, she gave him nothing. The fire in Lucien’s eyes roared on.

“Nimileth, if you leave me again, I will have no choice but to—"

She threw her fists into his chest, contacting his sternum with a hollow _thud._ “You’ve already told me what you’d do!” She shot back, the sound half bark, half rasping, manic laughter. “Don’t you get bored of making the same threats time and time again? Are you not sick of it by now?”

She swung. She twisted. Lucien intercepted another blow.

“Be still.” He grit his teeth as he struggled to pry her arms away, and when finally he managed a hold on one of her wrists, she responded by thrashing more violently.

“Or what?” she spat, shoving against him as he pressed her into the wall. “You’ll string me up and slice me open? You’ve already made those threats. Make good on them this time!” She struck out at him again, pounding on his chest, digging her nails into his shirt to pull up the dark threads of silk stitched around his collar.

“Hear me, Nimileth,” Lucien managed out, straining as he fought with her. He pulled her against him, one hand around the nape of her neck and the other shoving away her flailing arms.

She continued to battle, to writhe and squirm until at last he wound his limbs with hers, pinning her firmly to the wall. Panting and heaving, Nim stilled in his grasp. She looked up at him like an angry, wet cat, hackles raised and ready to sink her claws into his face should he come any closer.

“You enjoy this,” she hissed at him. “Mathieu was right. You’re always looking for an excuse to hurt me.”

“No,” he said, voice lowered. A warning. “You make this painful for yourself. It is always the same tortuous path with you.”

“And you are just as predictable as I am. You give chase like a mindless animal.” A strangulated laugh escaped her, and she already knew how right her provocation would prove her. Lucien growled with a renewed flare of indignation as he drove her back into the wall. She yelped, her head striking the stone, and she glared up at him through bleary, red-rimmed eyes. “You just can’t help yourself around me, can you?”

“Bite your tongue next time or I will rend it from you,” Lucien spat through clenched teeth.

“Idle threats,” she scoffed. “Kill me or leave. I am _done_.”

Lucien blinked. His hot breaths blew against her forehead, but he held silent, turning through his thoughts. Time elapsed, measurable in its passage or so it felt as he stared down at her, teeth grinding. Nim knew with grim certainty that he had at least _considered_ the suggestion before at last, he spoke again.

“I am not here to hurt you,” he said, loosening his grip on her ever so slightly. “I will explain everything, and you _will_ understand.”

“Have I any choice?”

“No.”

Nim sighed, not relief but the sound of a dying flame, a sputter and then all light in her eyes was snuffed completely. She settled into Lucien’s arms, wishing she could slip through them and pool at his feet, evaporate away. Disappear.

“You fed me lies,” she said, her voice a ragged whisper. “You knew all this time and you said nothing. I killed everyone for you. You made me believe it was the only way.”

“It would not have changed their fate.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“How? I killed them for you, and you didn’t even lift a finger to save them!”

A tautness stretched Lucien’s features. “You did not kill them for me,” he said sharply. “We have been through this. If I could have prevented the purification, I would have. You know nothing of how I had attempted to protect them.”

Nim swallowed down a lump in her throat and sharpened her glare, nose wrinkled, lips curled, scowl so caustic it could burn. “I know that you did not do enough.”

Lucien’ face flushed newly with anger and he squeezed her again, sucking in through gritted teeth. Nim grabbed hold of his shirt, burying her face into it and keeping herself steady against him as he jerked her back and forth. He wound a hand through her hair and bared her neck to him, and as his breath blew fevered against her ear, she was certain he would throw her straight through the wall at her back.

But in the next moment, Lucien ripped himself away, forcing distance between them. He ran his hands down his face, squeezing and pinching at all he could grab. A moment of silence grew, broken only by his labored breaths and in the distance, a branch scraping against the clay tiles of the roof.

“Perhaps I did not.” It had cost him something to admit it. “But you and I will bring justice to them now.”

Nim slumped backward. Braced against the wall, she let her knees go weak and crumpled to the ground.

“How long have you known about the traitor?” she asked, watching Lucien through blurred vision as he paced her bedroom. He drew his hands up to his head, running one through his now disheveled hair, the other pressed across his eyes. He looked lost, irretrievably so. Nim wondered if she should feel sorry for him.

“I have no proof, only conjecture. It will not be enough to convince the Black Hand but—”

“How long, Lucien?”

His eyes fell over her, heavy and mournful. “Since Banus was killed.”

That made it a few weeks before he’d given her the order but months since she had fulfilled it. The news brought with it little comfort. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Pain more than anger laced her words this time. “We could have saved them.”

“If I had told you of my suspicions, you would never have performed the Purification. You would have disobeyed, and the Black Hand would have demanded your blood.”

She shook her head. “You should have let them take it then. Maybe Vicente would still be here.” She withered a little at the thought and pushed back the urge to cry. “You took him from us, Lucien. We will never get him back.”

Lucien stared off toward the fluttering drapes, his focus distant. “I did not take him.” Quiet, his rebuttal and to her surprise he looked wounded. “Vicente knew what he had sacrificed to ensure that you and Lorise would survive. Everyone in our Sanctuary was promised to Sithis long ago. Whether you performed the rite or not, they were gone. They served honorably until their end, and if I could have convinced the Black Hand of their innocence they would still serve to this day. There is no one but the traitor to blame.”

“Why Mathieu?” she asked. “Don’t lie to me anymore. Tell me what you know.”

Lucien turned to her, exhausted. He sat down on the edge of her bed and combed his hair back before leaning forward to brace himself on his thighs. “You must promise you will not run or strike me again,” he said. 

The barest scoff escaped her, and she drew her knees up to her chest to wrap her arms around them, holding herself as she felt her limbs grow weak. “I think if I could strangle you right now, I would.” 

Tremulous, her voice rang, so hopeless and faint, and she cursed how it did not sound nearly as spiteful as intended. She thought Lucien would mock her for it, stifle a chuckle, or at the very least let an ill-humored smile slither to his lip, but his expression remained the same, grim and hollow.

“Come, I will explain it,” he stated and held a hand out toward her. She looked at it, then up to him. She grimaced.

“I don’t want to be anywhere near you.”

“Come.”

Nim stared into his palm, still outstretched and beckoning, and gulped down a dry swallow. She did not move, and so Lucien stood and walked toward her. He dropped to a knee, and when she did not object, he closed the space between them, settling against the wall beside her and taking her hands into his.

Her head was woozy, pounding from pain and not all of it physical. The least of it physical. “Tell me how it could be him,” she said, and she was spinning.

“The killings started about a year before you joined us,” Lucien began, tracing the lines of her palm with his thumb as he spoke. “The bodies were all found the same way. Strangled or garroted, pieces of them missing.”

“Pieces? Like a finger or an ear?” She was uncertain as to why she needed further clarification. Perhaps it was her familiarity with necromancers. She was used to bodies being taken from their resting site and had heard some assassins were fond of keeping… souvenirs.

“More. They were eaten.”

“Oh.” She blanched, the response worse than she had imagined. “There were bite marks?”

Lucien nodded. “Human, most likely but impossible to tell with the rot that set in. I suspect there are many brothers and sisters that we have not found, killed the same way. The Black Hand began to draw patterns from the ones that were recovered. The other Speakers suspected that the treachery originated in Cheydinhal, and I suppose in some ways they were correct. The first woman we learned of was an assassin from the sanctuary in Elinhir. She was assigned a set of marks here in Cyrodiil and had stayed at the sanctuary in Cheydinhal for an extended period of time. She and Mathieu grew very close during the duration of her contract, and afterward, she visited often. They seemed… happy.”

“Maria?” Nim asked.

“How do you know of her?”

“Mathieu spoke of her. He- he couldn’t have killed her. He told me—"

“Told you what?” Lucien cut in. “That he didn’t murder her?”

Nim thought of the night Mathieu had been here, in her bedroom, falling to pieces beside her. She remembered his wan face, the pain in his eyes as he wept for the woman he had lost, and her heart raced. Too fast. Soon her breathing grew shallow, each lungful leaving as a gasp. She felt as though she would faint at any moment, and when she did, the darkness would swallow her whole. The world would slip away, and if she loosened her hold any further, she risked sliding right off the edge.

She clenched her teeth and drew in a whistling little breath as she steadied herself against Lucien’s shoulder, and then she called forth her flame. It was a small spark at the tip of her fingers that sheared the indigo drenched night of their corner, and she felt _real _staring down at it, as though its glow tethered her to this mortal plane. Lucien looked down at it too and licked his lips, throwing Nim a cautious side-eye, but he did not release his grip on her hand, not even as she directed her stream of flame toward a tray of candles that sat on bedside end table. Soft orange light poured over them, and the glow lifted some of the heaviness in the room, not completely, but enough to clear the lingering fog. Enough to hold her in place. She leaned into Lucien.

“What else?”

“Blanchard was next,” he explained. “He was initiated into the Cheydinhal Sanctuary a few years before Mathieu, when Vicente was still Speaker. They were good friends, or so everyone believed. He held the position of Silencer that Mathieu would eventually come to take for himself.”

“But what does that prove?”

“Nothing, Nimileth,” Lucien breathed out and squeezed her hand gently in his. “Just listen. Someone witnessed Blanchard’s death. They said it appeared as though he knew his attacker, and that is when the suspicion began to surface among the Black Hand. Banus was the last we learned of. We were meeting down in Leyawiin. All the Speakers and most of our Silencers were present, Bellamont included. Banus was killed leaving this meeting, and it was Telaendril who found his body. The Black Hand was desperate to fill in the gaps. The manner of execution, the bite marks. All they could do was trace the similarities back to the family we had lost from Cheydinhal.”

“And Banus was the Speaker Mathieu succeeded?” Lucien nodded darkly. “Why didn’t you say anything to the Black Hand?”

“I did,” he said, not as sharply as she would have expected. “I explained how all of the assassins in our sanctuary were accounted for at the time of Banus’ death. I began to turn my doubts toward Bellamont, and our Listener would not hear it.” 

“The irony of that statement—”

“Is not lost on me.” Dull, the bite, but full of venom. “Do not bring it up.”

“And now?” she looked to Lucien, eyes wide and dark and lips parted as she forced herself to continue this nightmare of a conversation. “Why don’t you say something?”

“I have told you all the evidence I possess. Does it sound convincing?” She shook her head, just as Lucien suspected. “No others have been found dead in such a manor, not since the Purification, so what reason would I have for suspecting Mathieu? He is well protected in his rank. Our Listener dotes upon him. He and I have had a… contentious relationship as of lately. I worry that the Black Hand will think I am attempting to undermine their Hands cohesion if I begin to point fingers and unearth bodies long cold. Suspicion will fall to me, and Bellamont will use that as a weapon. He has something against me. You must see it too.”

“And why is that?” Nim asked. “What did you do to him?”

She did not attempt to hide the accusation laced in the question, and Lucien did not shy away from it, simply looked at her for a long thoughtful moment.

“I know not,” he said.

Though she found it hard to believe there was nothing he had done, she did understand Lucien’s point. She had picked up on the fraternal rivalry between them on the night of the party, but since then Mathieu had come to speak of Lucien differently, now with a deep-seated rancor that bled through his flippant digs. She thought of his warning and the fervor with which he had delivered it. It reminded her of Vicente’s reaction after he learned of the night she had spent in Fort Farragut. Of Lorise’s worry in the Bloodworks when she had explained the deal she had made with Lucien to keep their family safe. And at the same time, Mathieu’s outbursts were something else entirely. There was a franticness that kindled in his eyes when he spoke, an obsession that bordered on zealotry, and it was raw and terribly haunting. Perhaps she truly did have something to fear.

“So,” Nim swallowed, her throat tight, “what can be done?”

“I am searching,” Lucien said. “I—I am trying to find a solution.” He turned her hand over in his, fiddling mindlessly as he searched for his tongue. “I think he has been staying here in Anvil. You have seen him here, haven’t you?”

“In passing,” she admitted, remaining somewhat elusive despite her suspicions that Lucien already knew she had. “He always said he was on business.”

“Perhaps he was. Perhaps he was not. I find it unlikely he would give you any other explanation.” Lucien shut his eyes as he drew out a breath, the sigh careworn, but when he returned his gaze to her, it was determined. “If he is here, we will find him. We cannot wait until he strikes again.”

“But- but he would be a fool to do so,” she stammered out. “He’s already gotten away with Cheydinhal.”

“He hasn’t,” Lucien said, so resolute it was harrowing. “We know, and we will find a way to inform the others.”

“Mathieu would be wary of you most of all. He wouldn’t risk raising your suspicions. It would be reckless to—”

“And killing the others was not wildly reckless already? No, he is not done, Nimileth.” Lucien’s grip tightened, crushing her hand almost painfully, and she flinched. Something softened in his eyes as they flitted over her grimace, a rueful frown eclipsing the blood in his stare. He opened his mouth, shut it quickly, and shook his head, that fierce determination returning to his face. “Surrounding the events of the Purification, my loyalties have been called into question, and I suspect Bellamont has plans to implicate me in whatever treachery ensues. He has been planning this for a long time, and he will strike again.”

“And he will frame you for it?”

“He was already too close with Cheydinhal. To think he almost got away with it, and still he caused more damage than the death toll shows.” A harsh, bitter sneer escaped him. “He must be quite proud of himself.”

“But I- I still don’t understand,” Nim said. Her voice had grown watery. “Why is he doing it? What does he want?”

Lucien hesitated before replying, running one hand through the loose hairs falling at his temples. “I ask the same every day,” he said. “He has been an invaluable addition to our Family. He is a strong assassin, and we have supported him as such. We have given him a home, cherished his skill. We have loved him. I wonder how he feels we have wronged him so?” He turned to Nim, eyes inscrutably focused as though preparing to ask something of her that he knew she would object to. Her stomach twisted.

“You are fond him,” he stated, drawing his lips into a thin line. “I imagine the feeling is mutual.”

Nim felt too frail to look bashful by his insinuation. “And so?”

“Why is that?”

“Lucien,” she whispered, pulling her hand free of his. “Do not ask this of me.”

“Has he not mentioned anything of note in all your time together?”

“It isn’t like that,” she sighed, feeling as though her insides had been wrung-out, drained dry. “Do you really think he would have conspired with me? No, he’s been nothing but friendly and concerned toward me and… and that is all.”

“Truly?”

“Lucien,” she exhaled again. “Why does it matter?”

“Because he sees something akin to himself in you, does he not?” His eyes flared again as he scanned her, flicking back and forth across her face with that probing determination as though he could draw an answer from her if he only searched hard enough. “Is it your repulsion towards our work, towards our reverence of the Dread Father and his Unholy Matron? Has he suddenly found faith in the Divines? Is that it?”

“I know nothing—"

“Is it this common abhorrence to the way we live in which the two of you find solace? When did he have such a change of heart?”

“It is nothing so deep,” Nim said and shook her head sedately. “Mathieu and I… we are mortal, and we ache. We are lonely, miserable people, and we are not afraid to show one another what we have lost in this life. Empathy, Lucien. That is it. That is what we share with one another.”

Lucien fell quiet, regarding her with scrutinizing eyes.

“You don’t get it,” she said, trying to shake her head but stopping once she felt her whole body quake along with its sway. “I don’t know what you expect me to say. I don’t know why he would do it. Why would I know?”

“Perhaps we have wronged him in ways I cannot understand, ways in which you might. When you decided to run from my orders, tell me, did it never cross your mind to fight back? Help me understand him.”

“I am not Mathieu,” she protested. “My thoughts will not bring you closer to him.”

“They will.” He reached around her, drawing her bangs away from her face and holding her steady in his hands. “If not now, then tomorrow when you have rested and when you have had time to reflect. You will help me find him, Nimileth, and I am certain you shall see through this with greater clarity come morning.”

“Morning?”

Nim screwed her eyes shut and drew a deep, shaky breath. When she opened them, she looked out at the shadows of their folded bodies, lapping around the edge of the room like dark water upon a lakeshore. Lucien looked at her as though waiting for a response, eyes downcast and imploring. What did he want? For her to agree, take him at his word, invite him to stay with her until she was done falling apart?

She tore her eyes away from him and watched their silhouettes twist across the walls.

“It can’t be him,” she said. “I don’t believe you. I don’t want to.”

Lucien lifted her chin to face him straight on. She squeezed her eyes shut again.

“Look at me,” he said softly, but not soft enough to hide the urgency within the request. “You will see that I am not lying to you.” He cupped her face in his palms, waited for her gaze to return to him. “Look _deeply_.”

She stared, found the shadows under his eyes and the lines etched around the corners. Irises like oak bark, hard and unyielding. All things she had seen before, visions that haunted her. She stared long enough for the pressure of a sob to build, burning in her throat. “I don’t see anything,” she whispered.

“Look harder.”

She blinked and the stinging behind her eyes sharpened. She saw herself in his arms, Shadowmere beneath her and the nowhere blue sky of the Heartlands above as he carried her back to his home in the aftermath of the purification. She saw him tending to her, holding her, sending her out in the morning to kill for him again.

“All I see is blood and ash when I look at you, Lucien. Please, it can’t be Mathieu.”

Lucien sighed and looked away for a moment. “Why not,” he asked, the flicker in his eyes not impatience, something gentler and a little disappointed. “Why not?”

“He-- he’s not like that,” she bleated. “He hurts. He cries. Mathieu is a broken man who only wishes to feel something again. It can’t be him. I know him. He wouldn’t.”

“You know half of him,” Lucien said, releasing her from his hands. “The half he wants you to see. The half he thinks will gain your trust.”

“He would say the same of you, Lucien, to warn me—”

“Warn you?” Genuine confusion in his eyes. “Of what?”

She ignored him, continuing her train of thought. “But he does not know that I have seen all of you already. How can I trust you? How can—”

“Nimileth, listen to me,” he cut in. “He seeks to isolate us from one another. He seeks to plant doubt in your mind and use it against me.”

“Not everyone is like you!” she croaked, throat so dry it hurt to swallow and the pressure behind her eyes was close to surging free. “Not everyone is looking to manipulate those around them. Some people care! Some people care without needing anything in return!”

Lucien pitched forward as though take her back into his arms but paused, all muscles in his body straining, when he saw her freeze against the wall.

“What about Maria?” she said, eyes wide and watchful. “I’ve seen him mourn her. No one can fake anguish like that. He loved her so much, Lucien. Why would he do it?”

Slowly, Lucien brought his hand up her cheek and when she did not protest, he leaned closer, touched his lips to her forehead and hummed into her hair.

“Sometimes we do awful things to the ones we love,” he said, cradling her to his chest. “You and I know that more than most.”

A moment passed like that. A moment to absorb all in her senses. The matte black silk of his shirt on her cheek, the witch hazel of his aftershave beneath her nose, and then a shrill gasp filled her mouth.

Nim scrambled backwards, pressing herself into the corner like a panicked mouse. Her limbs felt numb to her, bloodless and barely there. “How dare you say that after what you’ve put me through,” she said, voice breaking as she choked down tears. “You have been hiding this from me for months, Lucien. Everyone in your Sanctuary is dead. You would have had me kill Lorise! How can you expect me trust you?”

“I risked everything to keep you safe,” he told her. “We did as our Dread Father willed. The choice was never ours to make.”

“Ever since you first came to me, you have been spilling poison down my throat. You told me that life in the Dark Brotherhood would be full of power. You said that I would find family and love, and you ripped it all away from me.”

“I _protected_ you in the Purification. I endeavored to preserve you because I–” Lucien faltered, fighting down a scowl or fighting down _something._ Nim watched as the muscles as his jaw tensed. “I have done nothing but dote upon you, Nimileth.”

Her mouth fell open and she blinked at him long and hard. “You believe it, don’t you?” she said. “Look at what you have done to me, Lucien. I have no freedom from you, no sense of security.”

He reached for her and squeezed his fists until the tendons bulged when she shook her head and flinched away from him.

“Don’t—” she said, her breath catching in her throat. “I will be sent after Mathieu, won’t I?”

“You are distraught,” he said, voice softer. “We will discuss what to do when you have calmed down.”

“You will send me after him, and he will kill me. You know he will kill me.”

“I do not believe he will.”

“What is left for you to take?” She blustered. “What more could you want? You have stolen everything from me, everyone I loved. I have _nothing_.”

“I have never left you.” Lucien leaned closer, eyes entreating, and she was stunned into silence. The room spun in swathes of deep, midnight blue and dancing amber, and in the center of it all was Lucien’s endless shade. “I have never once strayed. We shall find evidence of Mathieu’s betrayal and we shall move past this. It is only the beginning for us, dear Sister. You must calm yourself and not lose sight of this greater threat that looms near.”

“This is all a game to you,” she retched out, wanting to cry but finding no tears could escape her, only scraping, rasping sounds from the back of her throat. “You have isolated me from everyone in the Brotherhood. You have been manipulating me since the day we met. The advancements, the gifts, the-- the lies you told me. Vicente warned me of this. Mathieu warned me. Everyone warned me, and to think I--” she turned away, ashamed to find that she had been backed into the corner of her own bedroom. “I can’t believe I let myself fall so deeply.”

“I have told you no lies,” Lucien said evenly, lips curled into a thin, sad smile. “Ever since the Night Mother whispered your name into our Listener’s ears, you have been bound to us, and now you are my Silencer. You are bound to me.”

He drew closer, and Nim looked halfway between weeping and vomiting, face screwed tight. “I have no way out,” she rasped. “You did this to me. If I do not serve you, my alternative is death. This was your design.”

“It is an alternative that each of us face. We are children of Sithis and we walk always in his shadow. You are not alone in this fate.”

She looked up to him with wide, lachrymose eyes, and felt a sickly, coiling dread ensnare her. _“_My fate?” The realization hit her like fist to the gut. “And so you will kill me as you killed Aventina.”

Closer, Lucien drew until at last he laid a hand upon her arm. “Oh, Nimileth," he said, a coo, and she found herself frozen with fear, unable to tear away from him. “You know not of what you speak.”

The silk sleeve of his shirt brushed her lips, muffling her breaths and the words that trembled on her tongue. “I am your Silencer,” she whispered against the fabric, “and you will kill me as you have done your last.”

Lucien pet her softly, humming, an attempt to calm her. “My beautiful, self-absorbed Nimileth. If you do not understand by now, I wonder if you ever will.”

“Understand what?”

“Shh,” he said. “Be still.”

Cold terror spiraled up her spine as he mumbled into her hair. Sweet words, hollow and fully forged. She burrowed deeper into his shirt, crushing her palms against her ears, pushing away those silver lies drenched in the smoke of his voice, and though he continued to speak, Nim could not hear him over her own worries. She did not want to hear him.

“What did you do to her?” She asked, licking her dry lips as she forced her voice back into her throat.

“I suspect you’ve already been told.”

“Not by you.”

A pause. Lucien tensed, his fingers freezing against the nape of her neck. She looked up at him, hoping to read him but he stared down, expression flat.

“She perished on duty. No more can be said.”

“I need to hear what happened to her.”

“Nimileth,” he said, exhaling slowly, “not now. Later, I promise, but not now.”

“I need to know,” she urged him, “You wish for me to trust you. How can I if I do not know?”

Lucien tucked her under his chin, stroking the length of her back. He hesitated before continuing. “I do not believe this will reassure you.”

“I am not seeking comfort from you. I am aware of how it ends.”

“Then you know it will upset you.” Though he held her gently, the softness in his voice was now gone. “You will not like what you hear, and then you will refuse my explanation. This will end with you screaming at me once more. It is futile.”

“And so?” she said, a touch of bitterness. “What is new?”

A chuckle, stale and gray rose from the base of his throat, and then Lucien relented. “Aventina was…an eager thing,” he said, allowing Nim to draw away from him. She pressed herself against the wall, staring up as he spoke, watching as he described how he brought his last Silencer to ruin. “She was opportunistic. The two of you could not be more different.”

He folded his hands in his lap, then turned to peer out the sliver of window visible through the fluttering drapes. Secunda was a shard of yellow light in the sky, and its beams lay broken by the shifting curtain as they spilled across his skin. Nim hugged herself and rocked slowly, watching as the moon light cast shadows across his face, making his dark features infinitely darker. He continued on.

“Both of those words are too pale a description. In truth, she was ravenous.” The barest hint of praise lingered on his lips. “She jumped at any and all chance to gain recognition within the Sanctuary, even if it meant quarrelling with our Executioners for contracts that were well above her rank.

“I saw the promise in her craft. She possessed skill, coarse skill, but I believed that potential could be refined with the proper attention. I thought I could make her something more, something impossibly beautiful in the eyes of our Dread Father, and one day I decided to indulge her wishes. She surprised me with her ability, and from then on, I dedicated my days to training her. I needed know what more she was capable of, and how far she could rise within our ranks. I needed to know how far I could push her.” He looked to Nim, rolled his bottom lip inward as worried it. “The curiosity consumed me.

“But I came to learn that, as enthusiastic as she was, Aventina was reckless. She was as hungry animals are, fearsome but predictable. As my Silencer, I sent her on missions that required subtlety and she left them in mangled, bloody pieces. I grew frustrated with her performance, and so I pushed her harder. If she was to remain my Silencer, I demanded improvement, and Aventina was so eager to please me. She really did try her hardest.”

The smile on Lucien’s face grew deeper, fonder. The warmth of it made Nim’s stomach clench. “You enjoyed knowing that she would give you everything if you only asked.”

“I found it endearing.” Mere acknowledgment, no shame. “That is not a novel sentiment to hold.”

“You enjoyed knowing that she would die for you.”

“As I said, I found her enthusiasm endearing,” he repeated, this time colder. “I thought if she could hone such raw energy into something controlled and tempered, she could become a lethal blade. We worked so hard together, Nimileth. I truly did all I could to support her.”

Nim shook her head at him, face scrunched tight. What did he want her to do, praise him?

“Aventina’s weaknesses persisted,” he continued. “Nevertheless, she insisted on training harder, so I continued to indulge her. I challenged her with more advanced contracts, and she consistently failed.” He shrugged with a muted sigh, his face distant and disappointed as though deep in recollection. “The girl never seemed to learn.”

“You knew she was not ready for them,” Nim said, tone laced with biting accusation. “Why didn’t you turn her away?”

“Aventina was my Silencer, and she wanted to be better.” Lucien’s eyes narrowed, his turn to look on in judgment. “It is a noble pursuit. Some people actually take pleasure in the work we do, Nimileth. Some people strive to _be better._”

It was meant as a slap and it struck, but Nim would not let herself recoil from the sting, not from him. “Go on,” she said, despite wishing that he would stop, that he would leave her, that she’d wake up from this nightmare any moment and find herself back at the University with the scent of stoneflower and citrus in the pillow beside her.

“Aventina mangled many contracts in our time together, and she’d return to me wounded but always so sanguine, so proud of her achievements where she had succeeded. At first, I could look past them assuming she’d improve, but as time went on, her shortcomings grew taxing. Her lack of progress reflected poorly on more than just her. I soon realized that despite my efforts, she served me the only way she knew how, and it would never be enough.”

“It wasn’t her fault that you made a mistake in judgment,” Nim said. “She wasn’t ready, and you pushed her until she broke. Philida, that was the end for her. You sent her when you knew she would fail.”

“I did not know she would fail.” Lucien set his jaw, his expression cautious as he searched her colorless expression. “I suspected it.”

“You _wanted_ her to fail.”

“I wanted to know what she was capable of.”

“Even if it meant she would die?” Nim grimaced in disgust. “You could have sent someone else. It didn’t need to be her.”

Lucien shook his head. “It did,” he said sternly. “Aventina wanted to work beside me and serve the Black Hand. I needed to be certain that she would succeed. I will take only the best as my Silencer, or I will take nothing. There is little use among the Black Hand for one who cannot learn. Bodies are cheap in this world. Talent is not.”

“That’s horrible,” she said, breathlessly.

“It is the truth, and you know it. I read that the Council sacrificed many young mages in their pursuit of Mannimarco. I bet you knew some of them. I bet they were willing to risk you too.”

“It wasn’t like that,” she lied through her teeth, wincing at her own words.

“Wasn’t it? Sacrifice one so that others may live, like a gangrenous limb or a blighted crop. This is hardly controversial. We have been doing it since the dawn of time, whatever we must to survive.”

“That is not what you did to Aventina,” Nim cried out. “You should have turned her away! You should have spared her!”

“You do not understand, Nim. She _wanted_ to serve me because she loved her work. _This_ was her reason for being.”

“You manipulated her,” she spat. “You told her all those things you told me, didn’t you? That she was everything you wanted, and she was beautiful and that you loved—”

Lucien slid his eyes shut. “Nimileth, it is not the same.”

“You told her the _same _things.” There was dread in her voice, on her face, plain as a brand. “She trusted you to keep her safe. She loved you, and in turn you sent her to her death!”

Something in his expression changed. His shoulders fell and with a low breath, exhaustion seeped back into his voice. “You still do not understand,” he said softly, as though speaking to a child. “We are the sons and daughters of Sithis. We return to him when he calls. It matters not when. It matters not who sends us. What matters is that we walk in his glory and deliver to him all he asks. I learned from Aventina. She showed me her limits, how close she could skirt them, how far I could push her beyond them. She taught me what was needed in a Silencer, and when I learned, her purpose had been fulfilled. Don’t you see? Aventina did for our Dread Father all she could. He merely reclaimed her when her time came. “

“Gods. You are ill, Lucien. You are _sick_.”

“Do not make yourself a fool,” he reproached her, “No one strives for mediocrity in the world, and yet not all of us are destined for greatness. You know this. Look at how you have worked to rise above the rest. Ever the perfectionist, ever eager for a challenge.”

“I am as good as dead, aren’t I?” Empty as void, the sound of her voice echoing around them. She pressed her fingers to her eyes and sucked in sharply. “You will push me until I break.”

“I am pushing you right now,” he said, regarding her with heavy eyes, so heavy she felt the weight of them threaten to crush her against the ground. “Look at what I have asked of you, Nimileth. From the first contract, I have assigned you, I have been waiting for you to fail.”

“What?”

He raised a brow. “Have you not come to this conclusion on your own?”

“But you promoted me so quickly. You had arranged it. _You_ made me your Silencer.”

Lucien chuckled, the rumbling of it passing through her and reaching the edges of the room. “It seemed so easy for you, didn’t it?” he grinned. “But not because I made it so. Your first contract was to kill a pirate captain aboard his own ship. Does that sound like a task for a novice? The Imperial prison job, Fort Sutch, Summitmist manor, Philida’s assassination. I have been vetting you since you joined.”

“But—”

“Are you that humble, or is your skull truly that thick?” he taunted. “They were easy for you because you are _deadly_.”

Nim shivered and the frost lingered in her veins, consuming all warmth from blood, replacing it with rivers of ice that constricted around her bones. Lucien leaned in, reaching, always reaching and though the heat of him was tempting, she shook her head hard and fast. “You see what you want to, and then you will do to me what you did to Aventina. The moment you are tired of me, you will send me off to die.”

Lucien laid a hand on her, grip so soft it ached. “You are not Aventina.”

“It is the same thing, Lucien!” She shouted, sweeping him off of her and batting his hands away. At his attempt to still her, she took a fistful of his shirt into her palms, pushing and pulling against him, eyes wild. They were an unblinking dark, tear brimmed and as liquid as a lake before the moonlight. “Patterns repeat themselves! You will grow bored and hungry for something new! You will kill me!”

Lucien grasped her wrists, not firmly, but ready to peel them away should her antics grow belligerent.

“Must I be so explicit with you?” he said, voice crisp. “I pushed Aventina to be something she was not. I wanted her to think faster, to act quicker. I wanted her to bend in ways she could not bend. No matter how hard I tried to teach her, she would not learn, and it cost her life. I did not throw her to her death. She died in service. She _failed_ me. She failed the whole of the Dark Brotherhood because she was _weak_.”

Nim gasped, jerking backward and hitting her head against the stone once more. Her head spun, knocking loose the tears gathered at the rim of her eyes.

“I’ve failed too,” she whimpered. “When you assigned me to the Purification, I disobeyed. I ran. That night--” she winced at the memory, touched it at the back of her mind like an open wound, and then she wept. “I should have died in the ditch that night. I was weak, and look at me now, I am melting.”

Lucien released a hoarse laugh, as tired and cold as gathered dust. “You are dramatic, Nimileth,” he said, cradling the back of her head in his hands, wiping at the tracks of tears that slid down her cheeks. “There is a difference. Yes, you disobeyed. You fought hard against me, and I admit it was an effort well-played, but In the end you returned. You completed the rite. There was no failure.”

“That should have been my death,” she protested, unsure of why she was trying so hard to dispel his claims. “The only reason I’m still here is because you came to save me.”

“Because you are worth saving.”

Lucien looked at her with the veneer of patience fixed on his face, everywhere but his eyes which were too dark, too hungered and deranged to maintain the illusion, and why did she so wish to believe it anyway?

“What an awful thing to say.” Her words left her breathless. “What a truly horrendous thing to say.”

“I have changed for you, Nimileth. You will never understand the ways in which I have.”

“No, Lucien,” she sobbed and clenched her fists tighter around him. “You only lie so well you’ve begun to believe your own words.”

“And what would you have me do to prove it to you?” he asked, attempting to pry her off his shirt. “Rake my feet over coals? Bring you a shard of Magnus? Would you have me die for you? Would that convince you?”

“Wouldn’t you ask the same of me?”

An exhale of disbelief trailed from his lips. “You are impossible,” he said, “I have explained it all to you, yet you refuse to understand. In what tongue shall I explain it to you next?”

Nim risked the glance up to him again, hoping she would meet anger, a reserved bellicosity, something that spoke of his reiterated promises to end her. Those were the parts of him she understood, the ones she feared, and the ones she had no qualms about hating, but when she caught him in her gaze, she found only those fearless, keen brown eyes looking over her with the resolve of a mountain. Her heart plummeted.

“You think the truth comforts me,” she said, “How can I trust you knowing what you do to those in your service? You twist them into the shapes you need, and if they won’t bend then you break them. And you love doing so Lucien. You love watching them try and fail, and you ache for something new when they are moribund at your feet. You feed off of it. You-- you are a heartless monster.”

Silence, thick and viscous, like a third entity filled the room, and it sapped all air from her lungs.

“And what are you, Nimileth?” Lucien asked, the venom in his voice spilling forth unbridled. “Do you not lie and steal and cheat your way through this world? Have you not taken advantage of those who trust you? Have you not done so to me, without qualms, I might add, twisted me and driven me to fringe of madness for your own selfish purposes? I imagine I am not the only one caught in your snare.”

Nim swallowed down a lump of tears, her voice shaky. “You cannot compare us, Lucien. We will never be the same.”

“No? You are here because you thirsted for blood that was not yours to take. You sought out Alessia Caro, and you mutilated her for your own pleasure.”

“No.” She said it with certainty, a steel-edge at the tip of her tongue. “It was justice.”

“It was indulgent. You coveted and so you took. You craved the warmth of her blood. Don’t you remember it? Slick on your skin, and how you savored the scarlet river that spilled from her wounds in her final throes.”

“She deserved it.”

“And so did you, my dear girl,” he cooed, brushing through her hair. “Every rush and every thrill.” He smiled down at her and the shadows shifted between them, as though conforming to the curve of his lips. “We are the same, you and I.”

“Saying that will not make it so.”

Lucien narrowed his eyes. “Why then are we different? Do you think you are above me because you blend better into society, because people trust that you are who you say you are?” A low chuckle rolled across his chest, and his stare sharpened to needles. “Look at you, full of contradictions.”

“You don’t know anything about how I live my life,” she snapped back and twisted away from him. “You know nothing but what you want to see.”

He looked as though he were on the verge of cruel, hard laughter, his curling smirk proof of him working to keep it at bay.

“I know that you are an illusionist, Nimileth. This is what you do. You live life behind a veil of pretty tricks and glittering light. You show people what they want to see, and they love you for it, don’t they? You’ve fooled every one of them, but not I.” He placed his hand to her cheek, thumb sliding to her lips and she fought back the urge to bite it, figured he’d enjoy such a desperate show of anger more than she would.

“Never once have you shown me those neatly wrapped facades,” he said. “No, you’ve always been your true self in my presence. Such a spiteful, cruel little girl, never once hiding behind your magic.”

“Don’t—"

“There is no magic here,” he said, tilting her to face him. “There are no illusions between us. What we have is pure. Since the day we met to this moment we hold between us now, I have faced the brunt of all you offer. The wicked, the divine, the unholy. I see _you,_ Nimileth, and I am the only one who ever will.”

She shuddered, squeezed her eyes closed and forced the trembling in her throat to harsh, burning stillness. “I will never break for you,” she said through clenched teeth and used all her strength to keep her voice measured.

“I do not doubt It.” Lucien smiled, strangely pleased by her answer. “You warp yourself so well to the hands that hold you.”

Tender his touch despite the callousness of his eyes, an attempt at comfort. Her breath caught in her throat as he traced the length of her neck.

“You do not know half of me,” she said, craning herself away, “and you are not all I have left in this world no matter how much you claim to be.”

Lucien blinked, the control in his expression cracking. His smile twisted into something gruesome. “No?” he sneered and Nim flinched as his eyes scraped over her. “And who will stand by you when they know the truth of what you are? Lorise? Tell me about the last time you spoke with her. When you told her of Vicente’s death did she stay beside you or did she flee?”

He said it to mock her, to crush her, and Nim could do nothing but droop within his grasp. There it was, the familiar heat of anger leaping into the oak of his eyes, setting the bark aflame and splitting it open from the inside like the glow of smoldering embers, but this time she could not bring herself to fight back.

“She-- she was grieving,” Nim defended weakly.

“And when you were mourning after the purification, who watched over you?” he demanded. “Who held you and healed you? Who laid beside you and listened to your brittle laments?” He entwined his fingers into her hair, and she shook against them, felt the strands pull taut. “_Me_.” A simple word turned to a weapon in his mouth. “It was _me._”

“What do you want me to say?” Nim asked, the sound rasping, wretched, and confused. She pressed her palms to his chest. She wanted to shove him, to get herself away, but she found herself unable to do anything but sink her nails into the exposed skin that rose above his collar, kneading at whatever flesh lay beneath her fingers.

“You still don’t believe me?” he scoffed. “Try it then. Tell your mage about the things you did while you were in Cheydinhal. Tell your Emperor about the Countess you killed.”

“My—"

Nim froze, mouth agape and throat dipping as she swallowed. _Your mage? _Her heart beat in her ears, and beneath her palms, Lucien’s thundered too. “You know _nothing._”

“I know that no matter how well you keep your secrets from everyone else, you cannot hide them from me. Understand this. There is us, and there is them.” He combed through her hair mutely, and she remained in his arms, stiff and horrified. “They will never accept you as you truly are, and to think they ever would is a dream. If only I could shake such pathetic fantasies from you, Nimileth, I would. They cloud you, and you are blinded by such miserable, pining hope.”

She thought of the University, those early days filled with classes and the verdure of the Lustratorium gardens, so far away now. The orrery, Bothiel’s laughter echoing alongside the grind of metal gears and her hands hot with oil as she worked them. Fathis Aren and his study, his smile so roguish and brilliant it belonged somewhere in the sky. She deserved none of it. The very memory felt like stealing. All dead now were those dreams, dead in Lucien’s arms, dead by her hands, and for what, the fleeting power of revenge?

She thought of Martin and his preaching, his forgiving blue eyes. If she repented, was there still hope for her? Did she even deserve that?

Lucien moved his hands to her shoulders, sliding back and forth along the curve of her neck, down to her biceps, doing so with a restrained fervor.

_And Raminus?_ A chill staggered through her that not even the heat of Lucien’s touch could allay. She was boneless and fainting, awash in ash and sinking, the thought too much to bear.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

_Can’t what? How can you?_

_How can you be this person?_

She squeezed her eyes shut, and behind them, she held her dreams of Raminus, his smile, the ring of his silver, lilting laughter, so clear in her mind it was as though watching the rise of the summer sun. She felt wretched, no better than Lucien. Worse, for she was a fraud, steeped in her lies and drowning, and though she could wash the blood clean and smile pretty, the darkness that had claimed her would never be purged from her soul. 

Nim opened her eyes, returning to the gloom of her bedroom, and there pressed into her vision was the ghost of Raminus, eyes like emerald. She clawed into Lucien’s shoulder.

“I can’t ruin what I’ve built,” she cried.

Lucien dipped into the collar of her robes, untying the laces at her sternum so deftly she hardly noticed until he brushed his fingers along the prominence of her collarbone. At the touch of her skin, he cooled, and a dangerous calm returned to his face. It was only then that Nim noticed the blood at her fingertips, trapped beneath her nails where she had been cutting into him. If he had felt it, he showed no sign of discomfort.

“None of that matters anymore,” Lucien said, and his expression was terribly sincere.

“You are ill,” she told him. “You are _ill._”

He pressed his forehead to hers and did not so much as wince when Nim sunk her nails in deeper. She wanted him to say something, to hiss and fight back, to give her cause to fight back too.

“I know,” he said instead, “but we are the same, you and I.”

“What do you want me to say?” she asked him again, wilting. “Nothing will satisfy you.”

“I have only ever asked for you.”

“I can’t—” she choked. “I can’t give you what you want.”

“You can, and you want to, Nimileth. Let this battle between us end.”

“_No_.” Pathetic the rebuttal, a whimper on her lips so frail she did not know if even she could believe it.

Lucien sighed, and his breath blew gently across her nose. “You deny me because you think it will preserve your virtue,” he said. “It will not. How many times must I tell you? You, in your darkness, are the bruise of night made into flesh, and come morning, I am the only one who would have you in such glory. That is how I know this is real, this bond between us. We are two souls forged in the Void.”

Nim blinked. Her lashes hit his brow, and he looked down at her so expectant, his anticipation barely veiled. Her mind was a blur, a screaming tempest, and her eyes glittered with anger, but whether it was directed at Lucien or herself, she could no longer tell. 

“You are so sick that it hurts to look at you,” she whispered, and if Lucien were not inches away from her lips, he would not have heard.

“Yet you look.”

“Lucien—"

“Bring with you that ache, and I will take it away,” he promised her. “Your anger and your shame. That guilt that you wear so plainly on your face. My Nimileth, in your cruel, pitiless way, you have shown me how you need me.”

Lucien let his lips drift just inches above hers, so close she could feel the heat of them against hers, prying them apart. She lifted her head to meet him, the movement mindless, mechanical, so well trained into her by now that it felt like instinct.

“If I come any closer,” he whispered,” know that I won’t be able to keep myself from you.”

“So don’t.”

“Don’t what? Come any closer or keep myself away?”

Nim swallowed, drawing in a small, shuddering breath. “Does it matter to you what I meant?”

Lucien scoffed. “I am _done_ with your denial,” he said. “You have been thinking of me. You have wondered when we’d be with each other again. Tell me it isn’t true. Even when with your mage, I’ve been there at the back of your mind.”

Her colors livened, not with the warmth of his breath, but with anger, and it crested. “No,” she started but the word broke on her tongue, and at the thought of Raminus she snapped like a bone. She splintered, shards driving out through her flesh, and she clutched herself in her arms as though trying to keep the marrow from spilling forth. But she could not contain it, and the blood spilled. She buckled in on herself, flowing through her fingers until she was certain she had lost all ability to hold herself upright.

“It is not like that,” she said, the words desperate on her lips, and her voice shattering in her throat to shards of glass. Her eyes welled newly with tears and spilled forth as she shook her head. “It couldn’t be further from that.”

Lucien held her steady against him, lifting her to his face. “Tell me it isn’t true and _mean _it.”

But she could not respond, only sit there submerged in his arms, drowning, lungs filled to the brim as her tempest broke upon her. It rushed through her lips, beating down into her chest like a howling gale. And she could not respond, so soundless she sat in his arms, thinking of all the places she’d rather be and how undeserving she was of all of them.

“And what is meant by your silence?” Lucien murmured against her skin, and she whimpered, a sickly little mewl that blistered in her ears. “Tell me to leave and I will.”

Nim turned her reddened eyes to him and felt her lips tremble. She knew it was a lie. He must have known it too, but he said it with such innocence that she almost believed him. And did she want him to leave? Did she want to be alone with herself at this hour, alone with that burrowing guilt eating into her until there was nothing left but the hollow of her soul?

“Have I not already asked you to leave me?” she said.

Lucien drew her closer and his ungodly warmth crept up her spine, turning her breath into a cracked whine. He lapped at the trail of tears that ran down her neck and glistened like fresh ice melt on her skin. Her stomach fluttered, that cruel sickness twisting inside her again, and she felt perilously close to his wandering mouth. He squeezed her tighter in his embrace, his yearning palpable, and she loathed how the heat of his body melded her so perfectly to the shape of his arms.

“So, say it again.”

But Nim could not.

And when they kissed she did not know how it began, who’s lips found who’s, who’s arms entangled into the others and sprawled her body on top of him. She lay engulfed in him, the flood springing from within her, and she sputtered, choking, forced to drink it down lest it rise above her head and take her completely.

Lucien sat forward, his lips burning into hers, and hauled her into his arms. He swallowed her greedily, her moans, her tears, and carried her to the bed where he lay her down upon silk covers. She nestled into them, clawing into the fabric as she watched him shut the doors, sealing them in together. Why he bothered with it at all, she couldn’t say. Maybe he thought she would run if given the chance. Was he wrong? Would she?

What if she left now? What if she told him to leave? She heard the door click shut, the lock turn. The air around her became something new entirely. Hazy, a dream-like surrealness that tasted of desiccated earth and powdered glass. Why couldn’t she tell him to leave?

Outside, the clouds had shifted, leaving the room a moonless dark, broken only by the starlight that seeped through the curtains and draped the bed in shadow. Nim felt as though she were floating upon the blankets, like something left for dead in the rocking waves. Lucien’s silhouette crawled across the bed to where she lay, shrugging off his clothing and hanging over her like a shroud, and it felt fitting. She imagined herself on a pyre, veiled by the warmth of her Speaker’s body and waiting for the final spark to ignite her kindling.

And as he touched her, heat pooled in her lungs like a bottled scream. She wondered if this was what swallowing fire felt like, so hot and searing that it numbed all it caressed on the way down. She felt nothing in that numbing heat, and as Lucien kissed her, she swallowed down his breath, felt it melt the walls of her throat shut so that all sound slid down into her chest and died there, burned to ash.

She stripped bare for him and welcomed him to her, guided him to her, and he nestled into her neck, kissing her there, biting hard on the skin as she lifted her legs around his waist and warped to him, body arched and full of flexure. Familiar forms, they were now, followed by familiar grazes. The crimson runes beneath her fingers. The scars she traced on his shoulder and down his chest. Routine now.

Nim slid her eyes closed, and gnawed on her lip. Red ink spilled across her teeth and half-lidded, she dared to look up at Lucien. She found him fevered and desperate and so painfully familiar, the way the cold darkness of his eyes melted to glittering pools of garnet when they were alone together, bare and vulnerable together, and only then.

Catching her gaze, Lucien stilled above her. “Are you still with me?” he whispered.

Nim nodded.

“But are you with _me_?”

“Lucien, I am _here._"

“Are you?”

Nim sighed then released a haggard laugh, all breath and no bass. “Stop speaking. We are done with words.”

She urged him onward, rolling atop him and pinning him down by the shoulders, but Lucien only stared, resolute in his inquiry. “You must hold nothing back from me,” he said.

“How can I be anywhere else?” she conceded. “You’ve consumed me.”

Immeasurably pleased, the wicked smirk that formed the curve of his lips, and a vicious purr escaped him as he crushed his mouth to hers. She murmured against him, the sound a half-formed retort that she hadn’t the resolve to complete as his hands wandered up the length of her thighs. 

“_Please_,” she said, the plea forlorn, but at her request, Lucien gave pause.

“Please what?”

“You cut me open,” she said, grasping his hands in hers and pulling them away from her body. She squeezed until her fists were bloodless. “How can you take so much from me and remain unsatisfied? This is all I have left.”

“My girl, what’s mine is yours and vice versa. We have the world between us.”

She shook her head with a dying laugh, a whimper, all the air funneled from her. She clutched herself in her arms. “Here in my own house, how can you take so much from me?”

“This place is nothing,” he said, raising himself to meet her and wrapping her in his embrace.

“This,” Nim said again, hands clasped over her chest and kneading into her flesh as though trying rend it from her sternum. “If I do not have myself I have nothing. You will not take it from me, Lucien. It is the last home I have.”

“No,” he told her, and though the word was tender in his mouth, there was violence in its finality. “Wherever you go, I shall follow. Wherever we are together is home.”

Nim bit down on her lip, the sting of it sharply comforting, and shifted against him. She clutched the sides of his face and held it steady, forcing him to meet her eyes. “You are killing me, Lucien, slowly. You are a poison, and I do not know how to rid myself of you.” Weak and tinny, her voice as its echo faded into the cold, stone room. Would she, even if she could? Such a life seemed so faraway now.

Lucien’s eyes sparkled from beneath her, his grin unyielding and prideful as though he could read straight into her muddled thoughts. “And is that all?” he asked, holding her, kissing her, loving her the only way he knew how. And was it love? Or was it worse? She wilted.

“I— I hate what we’ve become.”

Lucien held silent, and she wondered if her words sounded as pale and unconvincing as they felt against her teeth. Finally, he drew a muted sigh.

“Then show me every color of your ire. If you are darkness, then smother. If you are fire, then burn.” He pulled her hand to his mouth where he pressed a soft, burning kiss into her palm, closed it tight and held it to his chest. “Consume me, Nimileth, however you feel you must.”

* * *

Later, Nim lay in the sighing light of the single standing candle, her body limp and flushed and full of dying heat. Lucien rolled her into his arms, and she settled there, melding once more to his form. Strange comfort she found in the senseless daze through which she knew him best. In that numbness, that rapture not unlike moonsugar and its lift of worry when melted against the tongue.

Nim breathed in deep and licked the salt from her lips. In that moment there was nothing, nothing except her heartbeat in her ears and the warmth of the man beside her. Greeting the darkness behind her lids, she let herself droop into the mattress, let Lucien’s roaming hands rock her to sleep, and the emptiness of dreamscape had almost claimed her when she heard him whisper into her hair.

“We could stay like this,” he said, so softly that she wondered if he meant for her to hear it at all. Nim prayed he would keep quiet. If he spoke anymore the daze would break. She’d realize where she was, who she was with, what she had done, and the guilt… it would strangle her.

She kept her eyes closed, did not make a single indication of her consciousness, and at her silence, Lucien continued on. “In the morning, you need not run from me. We can build something great from this ruin. Something ever-lasting.”

The silence shattered, but still Nim held quiet.

“It wouldn’t be so difficult,” Lucien whispered.

_For you, _she thought to say, but couldn’t bring herself to entertain him further. Why must he speak so much? Why must he draw such things out when they ought to wither and die on the tongue, unspoken?

“We could be so much more.”

“Goodnight, Lucien.”

A small breath of laughter. “You will find it remarkably painless.”

Nim lifted herself to gaze upon his face. She stared numbly for a long, long time, or so it felt. How anyone came to be so cruel, she would never understand. How many more lies could he tell? How much more could he ask of her?

An inhospitable poignancy scraped across her like a storm gale. Hadn’t she agreed to this? To lay still in Lucien’s arms, this moment of sanguine affection for her life and Lorise’s? What a mess she had gotten herself into, and even now, entombed in his warmth, she could not comprehend his intentions. Even now, as his Silencer who had killed for him, as his Silencer who would forever be a pariah to anyone but him, she could not believe his lies. How could she? After what he had done to his sanctuary, to Aventina, and yet…

When she squinted her eyes into those pools of garnet glittering back at her, he looked a man like any other who sought solace in the arms that would have him. And she would have him. Hadn’t she agreed to?

“Do you not tire of running?” Lucien asked, halting her in her musings.

And did she? The thought coiled around her like a noose. Would she spend the rest of her days like this, running from him, falling back into the snare of his shadow, stealing a moment of sunlight when she could break away again? Or would she exhaust and surrender when the weight grew too large? Would she submit to his design, lose herself completely? What if one day… she gave in?

She thought of Raminus, a ray of summer piercing the winter veil. “Good night, Lucien.”

What a mess she had made of her life, here entangled in Lucien’s limbs. She touched the emerald ring on her finger and thought of her barren quarters at the University. Back with her plants, and her pets, and Raminus, and if that was all that she could claim as her own in this world, it would be more than enough, enough to make her heart burst and tear itself asunder. She could keep it. She _had _to keep it. It was the last piece of her left pure, her last reason for redemption, and if she let it go, it would be the thread that unwound her.

She shifted in Lucien’s arms and he met the shadowed light in her eyes, drank it down, his expression characteristically dark and terrifyingly earnest.

“I stretch thin for you,” he said.

Nim rolled her eyes.

“You speak so much, it’s unreal.”

Lucien looked taken aback, an eyebrow scrunched in confusion. “What?” he asked her, looking the part of a spurned child, and Nim felt the quirk of a complacent grin grow on her lips.

“How is it possible for one to have this much air in their lungs?” She said it with pique, with resentment, but as Lucien continued his innocent little frown, her anger drifted off into a resigned state of disbelief. A chuckle rose in her throat, and then it broke, silver as the starlight. “By Kynareth, you never stop, do you? You are a damned bloody marvel!”

“Silence is not my responsibility,” he said defensively, at which she snorted.

“Yet you will not let it be mine. Go to bed already, good Gods.”

“Have you ever considered that if you were to listen to me the first time I spoke, I would find less need to repeat myself?”

“No, and as if that would stop you. I think you simply enjoy the sound of your voice too much to keep it in.”

At Lucien’s peeved glare, her body quaked with another round of laughter, but this time her voice was odd to her ear, the cackle a strange, demented sound, nearly unrecognizable. It was something that should not have come from a mortal being, and it shook her, shook the very air around them until it was halted by the walls of the room that contained it. 

As the sound passed through him, Lucien looked startled, dare she say unnerved, but just as quickly the concern was swept from his features. He welcomed her to him as she slung her arms around his neck and brought herself to the hollow of his throat.

“As Speaker, my words carry great weight,” he told her with that measured air of self-importance, attempting to reclaim some sense of respectability despite their state of dishevelment. “It is the Night Mother’s gift to me, and for as long as I serve Sithis it shall be my burden to bear.”

A moment of stillness, and then suddenly, Nim squeezed him in her arms, making herself as small as she could as she tightened around him like a constricting snake. She squeezed and squeezed, a little _oomph_ escaping her, until her muscles gave out and she had expended all of her strength.

Utterly nonplussed, Lucien lay motionless, a small groan of discomfort pressed past his lips. “What- what are you doing?” He finally managed, voice strained under the compression.

“I’m getting all the words out of you,” she said with determination. “Release it.”

“Release what?”

“Your burden.”

Lucien shifted away and pulled himself out of her grasp. He leaned back into the pillows to meet her eyes through the errant moon beams. “Are you telling me to be quiet?”

“In so many words.”

He scoffed, masterfully deceitful in his scorn. “Your insolence truly knows no bounds.”

“Please?” She gave a little pout but could not maintain it when another rumble of that strange, manic laughter travelled up from her belly. It gave even Lucien pause.

“I am at my end,” she said. “Release it. For tonight, if nothing else.”

A small smirk slithered onto Lucien's features, insincerely cruel and self-indulgent. He hummed softly from beside her as though contemplating the request, but in the end, he said nothing. Nim giggled against him still, the sound vibrant and ringing even as he brought himself to her mouth, even as her lips formed to his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk what happened. I had a plan and then the chapter became 20,000 words and i had to break it up into more. woopsiedoo. Next chapter will have a lil more substance. Just a wee tiny bit more.


	47. The Spark, the Ash, the Fire in Between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff…ish
> 
> (sorry)

**Chapter 47: The Spark, the Ash, the Fire in Between**

Dreams found Nim easily that night, and they were the best kind of dreams one could hope for given the horrors she had witnessed, the ruin she had wrought; Mundane and blissfully ordinary.

She dreamed of everyday errands around the University and the familiar lull of Lake Rumare’s waters lapping against its muddied shores. She dreamed of marble walkways and the bustle of the Imperial City, of Magnus at its zenith braced against the peak of the White Gold Tower, and of the flicker of oil lamps as she walked the Arboretum at nightfall. They were the same dreams she had as a child, and though once grandiose and faraway, now they were unremarkable. Blissfully unremarkable.

Eventually, Nim stirred awake. The sun seared across her heavy, sleep-filled eyes, and she shut them quickly against the intrusive brightness. She lay still, watching the swathes of red and orange dance and swirl across her lids, and as her dulled mind registered the warmth that filled her bed and the dip in the mattress beside her she realized she must be back at the University, with Schemer and Bok-zul nestled close within the covers.

And now it was past dawn. She must have slept in. _What did I need to do today_, she asked herself? Something about devising a new course curriculum. She’d tend to the Lustratorium gardens first, as she always did. She’d work there until the afternoon, and then she’d figure out what administrative matters she had brushed off until the end of the day. Did she truly ever know what she was doing as a Master Wizard?

_No,_ she didn’t. She probably shouldn’t be there at all, but thankfully she had Raminus and Tarmeena to keep her in line, and without them, she’d spend all day brewing potions, gossiping with Bothiel, and chasing after Fathis like a loyal little puppy dog. In truth, life at the University was far from a mundane, but she imagined eventually it would become routine, and she enjoyed it, the time she was there at least.

Half-awake, Nim turned over in bed and mindlessly reached her hand out across the covers. She touched a shoulder, the heat of it like a lure.

_Oh good, _she thought with a little smile and sidled closer, _Raminus is still here_. Ever since he had become Arch-mage, he had taken to sneaking out of her bedroom in the early morning dark. He had appearances to keep, appearances that did not include leaving her bedroom in a state of disarray. She thought it silly, given he had his own quarters, and fancy quarters at that. His new Arch-mage’s room sat atop the University’s central spire with a view of Lake Rumare that she’d trade her first-born for, but Raminus didn’t seem to appreciate it nearly as much as she did. For some reason.

_“It’s not so bad,” _she had told him, _“as long as you… you know… forget that Traven died in here.” _Hell, she had exorcised ghosts and slain a Lich in Benirus Manor and still found it hospitable enough. Despite her comforting words, Raminus didn’t seem in the least bit interested in sleeping there. His quarters remained largely unoccupied, sometimes even when she was not around the University to occupy him elsewhere.

_“What,” _Raminus had said the first time she had walked into her quarters to find him working at her desk, _“Bok-zul and Schemer are good company even when you’re gone.”_

Nim’s smile grew at the memory, and she pulled herself closer to the man beside her. “Hey,_” _she whispered into the warmth of his skin, brushing her lips against it, kissing him there, but when she opened her eyes in search of Raminus, she found Lucien staring down, already awake and watching like a sleepless ghost, the ones who once lived here. She felt her stomach wringing itself in her belly and turned back to face the sun in order to keep the dread from showing on her features.

Lucien’s hand came down gently on her shoulder, and hot breath filled her ear, searing against it like a ray of intrusive, prying morning light. He kissed the edge of her jaw, his new stubble tickling. “Good morning.”

If she didn’t look up, perhaps he’d leave, she thought. If she just kept still as stone, perhaps he’d think her dead and search for fresher prey. She swallowed hard and screwed her eyes shut, as though if she closed them tight enough he would simply vanish from her bedroom like the wisp of smoke he was. But she could still feel him, petting her, blanketing her in his warmth like a fevered infection.

“You cannot pretend you are still asleep,” he said.

Nim looked up to meet him, found tousled hair draping around his shoulders and those smirking brown eyes that she had woken up to so many times before, too many times before. She turned away quickly.

“Not who you were expecting?” he asked, lifting her chin to capture her mouth with his. She bent to him, flowing through his fingers, and when she looked up again, she watched her world shatter to pieces in his eyes.

She tugged away, not strongly, and when Lucien kept her in his grasp, she did not resist him, simply closed her eyes and hoped she’d awake elsewhere upon opening them.

Lucien chuckled from beside her, throaty and mirthless. “I can see the disappointment in your face,” he said. “You're not even trying to conceal it.”

Nim shook her head in his hands. “Disappointment is not the right word.”

“What is the right word then? Repulsion, disgust? Shall we fall back into our old ways every morning?”

“What ways are those?”

“Bickering and spewing insults like children learning to sharpen their tongues.” He tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear and mocked a frown. “Whatever happened to those dreams of domesticity you once spoke of?”

“Domesticity,” she drawled. “And shall I make the breakfast while you wake the children, hmm? How do you like your eggs, darling?” It was meant as a joke but just saying so sickened her. “Ugh. Imagine a life like that.”

“It doesn’t sound so terrible.”

“I— I have coffee if you really want it,” she offered with a sheepish little look and scratched at an itch behind her ear. “Not much for breakfast. Maybe some eggs, but their old, and I think I still have a few sausages from last night—”

“Later,” he cut in gently. “Stay for a while. Let us talk.” He pulled her to his chest, and she lay there in the crook of his arms, drumming against his collarbone mindlessly.

“What more can be said?”

“We haven’t yet discussed what we will do about Mathieu.”

“So early in the morning and business is already on your mind?” she asked and attempted a lighthearted chuckle despite the lurch in her stomach. Lucien looked down at her severely and the laughter in her throat cracked and withered to dust.

“This is who I am,” he told her, a hint of reproof. “It is always on my mind.”

Finding no sense in trying to dissuade him further, Nim relented. “Alright,” she said, “and how does your plan involve me?”

“You told me once that you think Mathieu takes pity on you. Why?”

“Probably because he knows I am under your employ.”

Lucien shot her a blunt glare, unamused. “I meant what has he _said_ that makes you think so.”

“Oh.” She resisted the urge to shrivel, little good it would do her while already so close, and instead looked away and tapped her fingers faster. “He tells me that I’m not meant for this kind of work, that I…. shouldn’t be here.”

“And when he talks of me, what does he say?”

“Well, I try not to entertain him when he does.”

“Nimileth,” he said stiffly, and she gave a sigh of defeat.

“He says I am not safe with you. The last time I saw him, he brought up Aventina. He blamed you for her death and told me not to become distracted lest it happen to me too.”

Lucien hummed to himself, eyes directed toward the ceiling. “Hmm.”

“Hmm what?”

“Continue,” he said. “What else have the two of you discussed?”

“He mentioned something odd that day. I was almost certain it was meant as a joke, but he was talking about… what things could have been like if I were his Silencer instead of Lorise. He said he had plans in mind, that I might have liked them given time.”

“Plans?” Lucien raised a brow.

“He kept it vague.” 

They were quiet for a moment, Lucien’s gaze still directed upward, and Nim wondered if he thought she had more to say on the matter. At her continued silence, he looked over expectantly and she shifted, sinking deeper into the pillows. 

“If Mathieu is the traitor, why hasn’t he killed me then?” She asked him, the question soft and sad and distinctly undecided. “We’ve been alone together. He could have gotten away with it.”

“There is a reason why Bellamont seeks to sow dissension between us,” Lucien said. “He is not done with you.”

“And what does he want?”

“He wants you to be distrustful of me.”

“But why?”

Lucien drew in a deep breath and stared off into the distance, absently tracing the length of her spine as he did so. A long moment passed like that, unnecessarily long and likely for effect, or so Nim thought, but when she looked over to him, he appeared deep in his ruminations, almost troubled. She didn’t dare interrupt him, and instead occupied the prolonged silence by righting the amulet around her neck and pulling the pendant back and forth along the chain.

Eventually, Lucien stirred beside her. “Perhaps he thinks if he can be a sympathetic ear, you will tell him of your misgivings,” he said, “and when he echoes them back to you, they will grow. He will feed you more lies, and you will swallow them until he has convinced you that I am to blame for everything that transpired in Cheydinhal. He will ask you to spy on me, to report your suspicions, and then he will feed all of these manufactured pieces of information to the rest of the Black Hand.” He turned to her, his eyes scrutinizing and expression indecipherable. “Or perhaps he has a greater use for you.” 

“A use?” She looked to him, puzzled.

“He knows that your loyalty lies not with the Brotherhood. It is something the two of you share.”

“That isn’t fair, Lucien,” she murmured, tugging a bit harder on the gold chain around her neck, then tugging so hard it hurt. “I have done everything you asked of me.”

“Not without reluctance,” he reminded her. “Bellamont knows of your qualms and reservations towards what we ask of our members. Maybe he sees within you a kindred spirit who can be turned toward his path of destruction.”

Nim stared down at her amulet. “I don’t know,” she said softly. “Even if he does feel that way, I said he pities me, not that he trusts me enough to bring me into his schemes.”

“At the very least, he thinks you malleable. That is good. We can work with this presumption.”

“Malleable?” She scowled at that, her nose wrinkling. “I’m not made of clay.”

He shook his head sedately, gentle disagreement. “He has already raised doubt within you.”

“Those doubts have been there for a long time before Mathieu was around,” she said. “He knows it too.”

Lucien dampened a chuckle, and the sound vibrated against her as he bent down to lay a kiss against the top of her head.

“Of course, he does.” A jab, the scorn in it unmistakable despite the softness of his touch. “The two of you know each other so well, don’t you?”

“Lucien,” she started and attempted to shift away, “it’s not like—"

“Think of who is in his service,” he cut in, his voice still murmured through her hair.

At mention of Lorise, Nim swallowed stiffly. “He would not be foolish enough to risk the life of his own Silencer.”

“He killed Maria,” Lucien countered. “Lorise’s death would implicate him even less. Silencers perish. It is as common as the setting sun.”

“He gains nothing from it.”

“What has he gained from any of this?” He looked down at her, questioning and calm as he waited for a response he knew she could not give, and at the realization that she had nothing more to offer, Nim looked back to her amulet meekly.

“Debating his motives without further insight is futile,” he continued with a sigh. “Perhaps he has none. Perhaps he is simply another madman on the loose, but the peril remains. Whether he seeks Lorise’s death or not, he has still placed her in a precarious position. If he strikes again and should he be caught, the Black Hand may believe that she has conspired alongside him. She is in great danger under his employ.”

Nim shook her head, and the movement small and barely noticeable, there was a subtle franticness to it. “But— but you know she would never do so willingly. You would explain it to them, wouldn’t you?”

“And if they do not believe me?” He said, an eyebrow raised. “There is a chance she could very well be doing so unwillingly. She is a Silencer bound to follow her Speaker’s orders without question. Mathieu may be sending her out on contracts that sabotage the Dark Brotherhood against her knowledge. Whether she is conscious of his intentions or not, she would face punishment for whatever treachery ensued.”

“He wouldn’t,” Nim said, this time her voice louder, firmer, and she wondered just who she was trying to convince with that hint of desperation in her voice. “Using Lorise like that, it— it would circle back to him in the end. It’s too bold.”

Lucien scoffed and then continued on as even-tempered as before, his hand still brushing up and down her back in long, languorous strokes. “Mathieu has been nothing but bold. In these recent months, he has been so bold and rash that all of the Black Hand refuses to believe that one of their own could ever act so foolishly. He killed Banus immediately after our meeting in Leyawiin, Blanchard in front of a witness, and Maria, his very own lover. He is impulsive, and that makes him prone to error. We must hope that it will now work in our favor.”

The incredulity was plain on Nim’s face and it concealed the crushing hopelessness in her chest as she forced herself to swallow. She dragged a hand across her eyes, then looked to Lucien darkly. “But how?” she asked. “I still don’t see how I fit into your plan.”

“You need to gain his trust,” he said gently, too gently to be genuine, and Nim sunk deeper into the blankets. “If not enough for him to divulge his involvement in these murders then enough to lead you to evidence of his betrayal. You can figure out where he lives, where he travels, where he sends Lorise, so that when he strikes again, we can connect him to it.”

Nim shook her head. “This is a bad idea,” she said and curled in on herself, drawing her knees to her chest. “If it’s true that he has done all that you say he has, he is no fool at all. He will see right through me.”

“No, he will not,” Lucien stated. If he were discussing anything else, the conviction in his voice might have reassured her but in light of recent events, his guarantee fueled only doubt and trepidation.

“You do not know that.”

“I know the two of you are better acquainted than you let on. He will eat right from you hand if you offer it.”

“It isn’t like that,” she said with a small frown and the barest hint of blush. “Mathieu and I are friendly with one another, nothing more.”

Lucien’s lips twitched, a cruel smile curling the corners of his mouth. “If this is to work, you must lie to him better than you lie to me.”

“Lucien, I mean it,” she snapped back. “Not all affection is so carnal in nature. He is fond of me because I retain a shred of compassion.”

“Then we will hope that he is truly as compassionate toward you as you believe he is,” he said mockingly. “If he holds such deep loathing for the Dark Brotherhood, you must make him believe that you abhor this life as much as he does. You must let him think the doubt he planted within you still festers. Be yourself. I imagine such disdain will not be a very difficult thing to pretend.”

“Maybe,” she muttered, brushing through the knots in her hair, picking at her nails, anything to occupy her hands, “but I don’t see how whining at him will convince him of anything except that I am a miserable wretch.”

“It will lower his guard.”

“Will that be enough?”

“There are already many reasons why he would be inclined to trust you. Mathieu is aware that if you are loyal to anyone in the Family, it is to Lorise. You have shown us all that you are willing to risk more than your own life to keep her safe. You are a Silencer. Furthermore, you are _my _Silencer. Mathieu knows that I—”

Suddenly, Lucien paused. He drew his lips into a thin line and rolled them inward, swallowed deeply. Nim watched as his throat bobbed up and down.

“He knows that you what?” she asked.

Lucien shook his head and cleared his throat, starting again. “Mathieu will be tempted to get closer to you just to spite me.”

“Perhaps you are overestimating how much he thinks about you.”

“No,” he said, and Nim wondered just what made him feel so certain. “You do not know him as I do, thus you underestimate his capacity for subterfuge. Why are you worried anyway?” He attempted a smirk as he looked her over, but this time, it did not quite reach his eyes. “Throw on some of those charm spells if you really must.”

“That’s not how it works,” she grumbled. “A beguiling enchantment will only hold its power if I am confident in what I am doing, which I most assuredly am not.”

“So forgo the magic,” he shrugged and rolled onto his side to face her. He took a strand of her hair in his hand, twirled it around his finger, then brushed it away to reach for another. “There are other ways to entice. Be creative.”

Nim glared at him, the muscles in her jaw clenching. “I do not bend men to my will like a siren,” she spat. “Do you see any leaping at my skirts besides yourself? No. I am far from a temptress and nor am I a whore, so do not treat me like one.”

“And what of those promises you made to me in order to spare Lorise from the purification,” he taunted, whispering his reminder into her ear. “How is this any different, hmm?”

A warm shiver twisted up her spine as he wrapped his arm around her. “There you go again,” she scoffed, “being repulsive.”

“I am not above it, nor are you,” he snickered, still smirking and the laughter still not reaching his eyes which were cool and level, the determination in them as hard as stone. “If Mathieu wants to make a game out of it, we must play.”

“But it is not a game, Lucien. There are lives at stake. Mine. Yours. More. One wrong step and it will come crashing down around us.”

He held her closer, tighter, pressing her to his chest until she could hear his heartbeat at her ear. “We can be either the hunter or the hunted,” he said. “There is no other way.”

“There is for me," she said, and her small voice filled the hollow of his throat. “I am the bait.”

“I suppose you are. So run fast.” 

“I _suppose _I’ll start now.”

She pulled away and lifted herself up off the bed, made to roll over but found herself held in place as Lucien reached out to grasp her arm.

“Nimileth, wait,” he said, full of breath, the sound gruff and tired, betraying the calm from before. He held her gently, tried to at least, and she stalled as she met his eyes below her. They were solemn and weary, dark around the edges from lack of sleep, and she wondered if he had found any rest at all the night before.

“What?” she asked him. “Haven’t we been through everything already?”

“I need to know that you understand why I am asking this of you. There can be no doubt between us. If we do not have trust, we have nothing.”

_Trust_. That word again. Nim staved off a shudder.

“I understand that you are asking the same thing you claim Mathieu would ask of me,” she said, “To spy and report on his activity so you can make a case to present to the Black Hand. You want me to risk my life fraternizing with the suspect in ways I would prefer not to, and you are using my concern for Lorise’s safety to your advantage. That much is very clear.”

Lucien looked at her with disapproval. “For such an intelligent woman, how you miss such obvious, critical details astounds me,” he sneered. “This is greater than either of us, Nimileth. We are working to preserve the Dark Brotherhood while Mathieu actively seeks to destroy it. Are you so caught up in your own affairs that you truly do not see how dire the consequences of our failure will be?”

“I see them,” she said firmly. “I will follow my orders. What’s one more to the list anyway?”

Appeased for the moment, Lucien let her withdraw. “And do you trust me?” He asked her. “Do you believe that I am doing everything I can to keep our family safe?”

_Trust_, he had said as though he understood the word._ Trust_, like his last Silencer had trusted him. She thought of Aventina and felt her insides squirm. Did Lucien truly believe it was in the Brotherhoods best interest to sever a weak link? By what twisted definition of loyalty was sending her to her death a means of preservation?

_And do you trust me?_

Lucien had already subjected her to his tests and brought her into the inner circle of the Black Hand. He had spared her, rescued her even. Did it mean something? If so, what? Was that trust worth anything if she died in the end?

Nim slumped backwards onto her knees and dragged her hands down her face, pulling and rubbing at the skin of her temples. “Oh, you exhaust me,” she murmured.

Lucien sat up, and the blankets pooled around his waist, revealing taut muscle and the many scars that marred them. He ran a hand through his hair, turned to look out the window where the sun spilled in, clean and clear. “Maybe we are not communicating with each other the correct way,” he said.

Nim huffed loudly through her nose, almost a chuckle but too weak to carry it through. “Have we ever?” she asked, and then released a tired sigh. “Sometimes I think I know you, Lucien. Sometimes I think I understand what you want, but then I remember what you are, and what I am to you, and—” She swallowed back her words and shook her head. “It’s all a mess. Our relationship is a _mess._”

“It is simple,” he said. “You are my Silencer.”

“I am a tool in your hand.”

“Yes,” he said plainly, “and the sooner you accept this, the easier it shall be.” He did not reach for her like she might have expected, simply stared with his warmth, his cold aloofness, his patience and his frustrations melting together into a startlingly rich shade of brown. “There is no greater honor I can bestow upon you than this title,” he said. “If you refuse to understand this, there is nothing more I can do.”

Nim looked down at her empty hands and squeezed them into a fist. The time for maudlin moping had long since past. _This_ was reality now. Whether she wanted it, truly wanted it or not, Lucien was here, just as he was in her visions. The smoke filling her room and suffocating all it touched, and she was drowning anew in a sea of cinder. Time and time again it seemed that no matter where or at what she grasped to lift herself free, all hope died in her empty, useless hands.

But she still had fight left in her, and so she continued treading, keeping herself afloat if only for a moment longer.

She looked to Lucien. “And if one day I’m something more?”

“Something more than my Silencer?” He raised a brow and drew back in surprise. At his curious expression, she flushed.

“Like a Speaker.”

“Ah,” he said, his voice trailing off and in his eyes, something akin to a contained disappointment. “You will not be considered for a long while.”

“But one day?”

“Perhaps,” Lucien chuckled, mostly breath and the barest hint of genuine humor. “I didn’t think you so ambitious.”

“But It is an option for me, no?”

He nodded and then leaned closer. The whisper of wry grin flitted across his features. “If you think that you will rid yourself of my presence that way, you are terribly mistaken.”

Nim chewed her bottom lip. Would that truly be her fate? Would Lucien linger in her shadow as long as she served Sithis? _What a mess_, she thought but quickly brushed aside the returning surge of self-pity. She _would_ find another way out of this if it took years and all her youth and ages even past that. She _would _escape him. But now…?

Now there was simply_ this_, whatever it was, the two of them somewhere in between the first spark of flame and the falling ash.

She flopped back onto the mattress, curling up in the pillows beside him. “I don’t want to be a Speaker,” she said, and let her shoulders slump, the tension in her muscles unwinding as she closed her eyes. “I think I’d be terrible at running my own sanctuary.”

“I agree.”

“_But_,” she started again and took a strand of his hair into her hands, braiding it as she spoke, “it would give me an opportunity to find my own Silencer to stalk and take to bed. Perhaps I’d finally understand why you find that activity so enjoyable.”

“Does such a prospect tempt you?” He asked coolly. “I can’t imagine you as the type of woman to give chase.”

“Well not the way you do it. You’re as subtle as a silt-strider.”

Lucien looked mildly insulted. “That isn’t true,” he protested.

“No? You’ve broken into my house twice now, and within the first month of being in the Dark Brotherhood you barged in on me half-dressed in the middle of a bath. And remember that time you attacked me in the middle of the forest? All so you’d have someone to drink your wine and listen to you play the lyre.”

“I remember that night proceeding in a _distinctly_ different fashion.”

“That’s just your old-man brain going haywire," she said dismissively and reached for another strand of his hair. "If I had a Silencer, I’d make a genuine effort to woo her at least. None of those tricks you use to butter someone up. Maybe I’d arrange a picnic, buy some flowers. I have good taste in flowers.”

“Ah, an alchemist who loves flowers,” he snorted. “Was it so simple all along?”

Nim looked up just to roll her eyes at him and suddenly, Lucien grabbed her around the waist, his hand winding up along her ribs and drawing out shrill laughter as she squirmed.

“That tickles!” she shrieked. “You fetching dreugh, get off! It tickles!”

She slammed her pillow across his chest, knocking him off for but a moment, enough time for her to scramble up and brace herself for another attack. When Lucien lunged forward again, she twisted away and then threw herself on top of him, this time reaching for his sides. He did not submit to her advance as easily as she had assumed, and soon they were grappling across the mattress, knees sticking into ribs and elbows thrown into faces. More shrieks filled the room, not angry but neither joyous, and the sound was soon broken by an uproar of strangulated laughter that continued until they tumbled over off the bed.

With a thud, Nim landed atop him. She glared down and rubbed at a tender spot on her chin that had been forced into his shoulder. “You bastard,” she choked, her abdominal muscles still burning from the strain. “What the hell's gotten into you?”

Lucien righted himself quickly and before she could jerk away, he had captured her in his arms again. She squealed.

“You won’t slip away from me so easily,” he teased her.

Though aching and bruised, a sparkle of defiance lit up in Nim’s eyes. “Oh, but I’m very slippery,” she managed out, “You haven’t even seen me at my slipperiest.” Jabbing her fingers into his side, she wrenched herself free, scuttling off of him and racing across the room. Lucien did not hesitate to give chase.

They continued on like that for a while.

* * *

When the thrill of their dalliance faded, the distraction it offered winked out like a sputtering flame. Eventually, reason returned to Nim. She needed to get on with her day, return to her responsibilities and not just the ones that Lucien had given her. Martin had likely made progress with the Mysterium Xarxes and would be sending for her soon. She hoped he was well, sleeping full nights, eating real meals not just the scraps he kept at his desk. He rarely tore himself away from that cursed book, and it couldn’t be good for him. He was still mortal after all.

She’d need to check the post at the University for a correspondence and felt her heart stutter at the thought of rejoining her fellow mages in that ordinary, scholarly life. It felt oddly foreign all of the sudden. No more secret intelligence gathering, no more tracking down captured operatives. With the necromancer threat extinguished, University life would return to classes and experiments and reading as much as her heart desired. Strange that there was anything stable left for her these days, but then she looked to Lucien and remembered that the promise of stability was an ugly, sugar-coated lie that she told herself to keep from falling apart.

“Lucien?”

“Hmm?” He muttered out, short of breath and his cheeks still flushed from exertion. By the end of their game, he had caught her, and despite her masterful attempts at evasion, it was hardly a surprise to either of them. He had done so many times before and in scenarios with much higher stakes than these.

“You are laying on my hair.”

“Ah.”

He shifted away, and free from restraint, Nim padded off to her wardrobe only to realize she had emptied it of its contents the day before. She pulled out a clean shirt from her packed trunk, and eyed Lucien, who didn’t follow after her in search of his own clothing. He simply laid there in her bed, sprawled out as though he had damn well bought the thing, his gaze drifting from her to the window, up to the ceiling and back again. 

“Don’t you have… things to do today?” she asked him as she shrugged on her clothes.

Lucien raised a brow. “Don’t you?”

She turned away from him to hide the color that suffused her cheeks. It was true. There were dozens of places she needed to be, and none of them benefited from tarrying in Lucien’s company as long as she had. Hours with him were always a needlessly drawn-out ordeal, full of wasted breath and idle bickering, and reflecting on them now left her feeling slothful and gluttonous. _Dirty_ even.

“Are you going to do them?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you planning to do them from atop my covers?”

With a sigh, Lucien rose from the bed, plucking up the garments at his feet. “And here you were complaining that _I _spoke only of work.”

Nim continued dressing in silence and kept her back turned to him as she sat on the bed to comb through her hair. Somehow seeing Lucien half-dressed in her bedroom was stranger than seeing him there completely bare.

“Where will you go from here?” He asked her, pulling on his trousers.

“East,” she said. “For the Draconis contracts.”

“Good. Bellamont’s new sanctuary is just outside the Imperial City. Consider making a visit while you’re in town.”

“What?” she blurted out. Startled, she turned to him, her comb paused mid stroke. “Where?”

“Fatback cave. It’s on the southern shores of Lake Rumare.”

“Is that—is that safe?” She stammered. “Having a sanctuary so close to the capital?”

“No more or less so than any other,” he said, a shrug of nonchalance as he slipped his belt through the loop of his trousers. “Philida is no longer a problem for us, and the new captain of the watch will do well to scrupulously observe the warning we left him. You took care of that, remember?”

“Yeah, I did. Didn’t I?” She said, more to herself than to him.“And what about Anvil? Are you going to stay here and search for signs of him?”

Lucien gave a sigh. “That was my original intention. I fear now that I have overstayed my welcome in town.”

“What do you mean?”

“I will explain it later.” He shook his head in dismissal, then turned to her expectantly. “Have you thought anymore on what I said earlier?”

Nim stifled a snort. “Probably not.”

Lucien’s expression darkened. “Do you understand why we are doing this, Nimileth?” He said, voice ripe with disdain. “I am not speaking to a wall, am I?”

“No, I—"

“You and I must bring Mathieu to justice. For all the whining and whimpering you do regarding Vicente’s death, you seem awfully reluctant to take any action in his honor.”

She clenched her teeth, fighting back the urge to snark, to bite, to do much worse. “Yes,” she hissed. “I understand.”

At her contained response, Lucien looked a bit surprised, as though he hadn’t expected her to muster up enough self-control to suppress a more vivid response. “Good,” he said, a smug satisfaction curling his features, making them something much more wicked. “This is not merely an occupation. It is our life’s work, and I endeavor to preserve its integrity for the both of us whether you appreciate it or not.”

“How keen.”

He continued dressing, and though Nim tried to focus on readying herself, her mind wandered back to what he had mentioned moments ago, hours ago, to scattered pieces from the night before.

_Wherever you go I shall follow._

Only in Oblivion had she been free of him. Surely that was not the only asylum from his pursuit.

“Lucien?”

He looked to her, hands working the buttons of his shirt. “Yes?”

“How long are we bound?”

He smiled at that, brief and easy. “For as long as we’re breathing.”

“I meant, how long am I to be your Silencer? Don’t those positions change? What if… someone new comes along? Someone better suited to your needs.”

With his shirt half done up, Lucien approached and sat beside her on the bed. “Are you worried I will replace you?” he teased, sweeping her bangs behind her ear.

“No.”

“Mhm.”

“I am _not._”

“Nevertheless, you will be my Silencer until I release you.”

“Release me?” She fought back the shiver that wound up her spine. “Like you released Aventina?”

Lucien set his jaw, his eyes narrowing. “This again?”

She fell silent for some time, her focus directed on picking out the knots of hair from her comb and brushing them onto the floor. “So we’ll be growing old together then?” she asked at last.

Lucien appeared to consider it. “If Sithis wills it.”

“You’re already old.”

“Then I will be older,” he said. “That is how time works, dear girl.”

“If we are to be old together, you must move out of that musty dungeon you call a home,” she said and returned to combing through her hair. “There’s no way I’m hobbling down that rope ladder at seventy-five. Besides, all that mold and rot can’t be good for your lungs. You’ll need to find a proper residence.”

“Oh?” he smirked and made a show of glancing about her bedroom. “And what is a proper residence to you? Somewhere with large bay windows and plenty of natural lighting?”

“Yes, actually. That is the absolute _bare minimum _one needs. A normal house. No underground maze, no mold, no cobwebs, no undead shambling about.”

“Hmm, a house,” he mused, speaking slowly, lingering on the word as though tasting it. “With a little veranda overlooking the garden? How pedestrian.” Nim was halfway to scoffing before he offered up a shrug of agreement. “It just might work,” he said.

“Why the change of heart?" She asked, eying him suspiciously. "You didn’t seem so keen on the suggestion the last time I made it.”

“What can I say? I’ve matured.”

“Oh, yes. some fine wine you are.”

“I should clarify. With _compromise_, it might work.”

“Compromise?” she echoed. “Compromise with who?”

“We won’t be staying in Anvil, however. Not in any city. No walls shall contain us.”

“_We_?” she balked. “What, am I living there too?_”_

Lucien continued, ignoring her look of utter disbelief. “Out in the countryside, I think. We’ll want privacy and plenty of land, preferably somewhere off the main roads. Maybe southern Cyrodiil. Land is cheap there.”

Nim indulged him, unsure as to why. “In the Upper Niben?” she inquired.

“Further south,” he said and leaned back, sinking into her pillows once more. “Perhaps the Blackwoods.”

Nim pinched her face into a tight bud. “No, absolutely not,” she said. “I’d rather stay in Fort Farragut than live there again. Summers are too humid and the mosquitos itch something fierce. Not to mention you bake a bread in the morning and by dinner it’s molded. Everything in the Black Woods is ripe for decay.” She turned to him, frowning. “I don’t see what’s wrong with the Gold Coast.”

“The climate’s too dry."

"So?"

"My skin is sensitive.”

“Oh my Gods,” she groaned. “They do make ointments to protect your precious baby skin.”

“Am I a baby or an old man? Which one is it?” Nim simply brushed him off and Lucien smiled to himself victoriously, tucking his arms behind his head. “There are other reasons to look outside of the Gold Coast too.”

“Such as?”

“There are not enough trees here. It’s all sage shrubs and scrub oak and endless hills of fescue. It’s too… open.” He met Nim’s bemused expression and gave a shrug. “I am fond of wooded areas and the seclusion they provide. That should be no surprise for one in our occupation.”

“Then I’ll plant you a grove of stone fruits,” she suggested. “Plums, nectarines, apricots. Whatever you’d prefer. They do remarkably well in the dry climate. Pomegranates too.”

“What about East of the Imperial Reserve? Along the Brena River?”

Nim hummed to herself in thought as she tugged at a small knot in her hair. “Hmm. I do like the mountains. We could build a cabin. Maybe a landslide will come and kill us in our sleep.”

Lucien smile grew crooked. “Would the West Weald be more to your liking?”

“Lands not cheap there.”

“It is when you’re far enough away from Skingrad,” he said. “Besides, money is no issue for me, remember?”

“Okay, money bags,” she said wryly, “the West Weald it is. A small house over-looking the Strid river, and when it rains hard enough, the soil will come wash us into it.”

Lucien’s frown deepened again. “I was thinking a small house far enough away from loose soil to rest easy that no landslide will level us.”

“In the West Weald?”

“Do you object?”

“No,” she said hesitantly. “It’s pretty there. You get all four seasons too. We could have a small cottage made of cobblestone and it will be green with ivy all summer long. And we’ll have a garden filled with blackberries and tomato and pale pink roses.” She turned to Lucien, a small, but conspicuous smile creeping on her face. “I’ll set up a deer stand in the forest, and you could take up fly fishing. Bring us back some fresh bass for dinner.”

“Fly fishing?” he paused. “I… don’t think I’ve ever been fishing.”

“No? It’s so much fun,” she told him, her smile growing into something toothy. “I could show you. All you do is sit there and wait. You’re quite good at that.”

“Yes, when it is demanded of me,” he said, narrowing his brows. “I don’t sit around and wait for my pleasure.”

“Are you sure?” she teased. Lucien simply glared.

She made a flippant gesture over her shoulder. “You don’t need to be so serious all the time. It’s a hobby, like playing your lyre. It would be good for you, you know, to take your mind of work with a calm afternoon and a couple of beers.”

“I don’t know,” he muttered and stared off toward the ceiling. “Fishing? With... worms and things?”

“Not just worms,” she said with an eager nod. “Hellgrammite and crayfish make good bait too. And don’t act like worms are above you. You live with decomposed bodies walking about.”

“Fishing,” he said again. “Perhaps I could grow to enjoy that. I don’t know. I can’t imagine myself in waders.”

Nim tried to. The image was positively absurd, and she bit her cheek to keep from snickering at the thought of Lucien standing thigh deep in the water attempting to wrangle a flailing fish into his bucket.

A muffled chuckle escaped her, and Lucien turned to catch her smothering it down. He looked to her, eyes inviting, and although she had finished combing through hair minutes ago, she continued for another round, holding his gaze.

“What would you grow in your garden?” he asked her.

“I’m thinking I could split it into three parts,” she beamed. “One section for vegetables, one for fruits, and one for alchemical ingredients. We’ll have to fence that part off though, so the dogs don’t get into my nightshade.”

“We’ll have dogs?”

“Of course, we’ll have dogs. What kind of question is that?” She shook her head, tutting as though he ought to have known better. “Ooh, maybe if I plant more flowers, we could build an apiary. Maybe we could make our own mead.”

“Could you grow hops? I’ve always been interested in brewing beer.”

“I suppose so,” she mused, “but they prefer to grow vertically on big trellises. I’m going to need a bigger garden to make that work.”

“What about a farm?”

Nim squinted at him, then laughed, sharp and shrill.

“I can’t imagine you doing manual labor. Tilling the soil, pulling the weeds? I don’t see it. I bet when the privet gets too thick along the forest edge, I’ll ask you to trim it, and you’ll roll your eyes at me over the rim of your morning paper as though I’m some nagging, shrewish house-wife. Oh, I can see it now!” She laughed at herself again and then shook her head, eyes twinkling when they returned to him. “Then I’ll be the one to go out with my clippers, grumbling over your slothfulness, and I’ll get myself all cut up in the thorns because you’ve put me in such a foul, distracted mood. Then I’ll come home all mangled and torn to pieces and you’ll yell at me for tracking blood on the rug when I return.”

This elicited a harsh scoff from Lucien. “Is this really what you think of me?” he asked, looking somewhat offended. “I’d never bicker over something so inconsequential, and I do in fact know how to use garden shears. I would trim the privet if you asked.”

“Please,” she jeered. “You can’t even sweep the cobwebs out of the corners of your bedroom.”

“Perhaps I enjoy the company of spiders,” he said stubbornly. “Perhaps I like the atmosphere they produce. Have you ever thought of that?”

“Fine,” she said and waved a dismissive hand. “You’ll trim the privet and I’ll prune the roses and for dessert we’ll have blackberry pie. Happily ever after, right?”

Lucien smiled broadly, smug and self-satisfied. “Happily ever after,” he echoed.

With a roll of her eyes, Nim rose from the bed and began picking up the sheets, pillows, and discarded garments that had been strewn about the room. She plucked up a wool sock, one obviously not hers by the lack of holes and worn fibers.

_What is this, cashmere? _She thought to herself, turning it over in her hands, then she threw it at Lucien, aiming for his face. To her disappointment, he reached up and caught it just before it landed on the intended target.

“If a homey little abode sounds so nice, why don’t you already have it?” she asked him and continued on with her cleaning.

“I do.”

“Fort Farragut is not _homey_.”

“Not to you perhaps, but for me it is sufficient.” She glared at him as though it were abundantly obvious he were lying, but Lucien merely shrugged. “Believe it or not, I do not ask of much from life, Nimileth.”

_Says the man with cashmere socks._ She snorted. “Oh, not much at all. Just an isolated residence and the freedom to moonlight as an assassin.”

He gave a small nod. “I enjoy the stability it offers.”

“Stability? I’ve had more stability rolling down a hill.”

“People are always in need of our services. The employment is guaranteed. Thus, it is a stable occupation.”

“Guard work is stable.”

“Guard work does not guarantee blood for profit, or pleasure, or for the glory of the Dread Father,” he said matter-of-factly. “As I said, that is all I need. Why you insist on pretending it is any more complicated than that eludes me.”

“I guess I like being dramatic,” she sighed, shaking out a rumpled sheet. “It’s something we share in common. Must be why we get along _so _well.” She nodded at him then pointed away from the bed, gesturing for him to move. “Get up for a second? I need to make the bed.”

Lucien did as asked, and when Nim handed him the other end of her sheet, he followed her lead, stretching it over the mattress and laying it flat against it.

“Let’s circle back to this prospect of fly-fishing,” he said as he tucked the corners of the sheet beneath the mattress. “What if we had a pond beside the cottage? We can stock it with trout and minnows if it’s large enough.”

“Oh, it will be large,” she assured him as she threw the other end of the duvet his way. “It will be so large that every time a storm sweeps in we’ll quake in fear that it will flood and drown us.”

Lucien frowned in disapproval. “Why are you like this?”

“Like what?”

He folded the edge of the duvet back and pulled it taut. “Abrasive is the kindest way I can put it."

“Lucien, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I violently dislike you.”

“You say that to me now, but your body tells a different story,” he smirked, fluffing up a pillow before setting it against the headboard. Nim did the same, blush rising to her cheeks.

“Those things are not mutually exclusive,” she said and cleared her throat before walking over to the window. She peeked out the blinds, staring longingly at the stretch of cobblestone that led down the main street of Anvil and disappeared behind the gates to the harbor. “It’s a simple matter of physiology. That’s all.”

“Fine then,” Lucien said, a little gruffly. “It’s not a pond. It’s a lake with many tributaries so that there is always an outlet for overflow when the water level rises. We’ll swim there in the summer, and you can throw fireballs at the mudcrabs whenever you’re angry at me for forgetting my domestic responsibilities.”

Nim held herself in her arms and continued to stare out the window. Magnus shined bright above the deep blue of the Abecean Sea, but from behind the glass that clear daylight seemed so unreachable, so far away. She thought of the house Lucien described. She could imagine it in pieces. A modest cottage tucked away in a grove of oak. A smoking chimney, ivy climbing up from all sides. “A lake, hmm?”

Lucien walked toward her and set his hands down against her shoulders, rubbing tenderly. “A lake,” he said. “With trout and bass and minnows.”

“Sounds pretty." And with a little focused thought, the vision grew more vivid, glittering behind her eyes, and there was something... appealing to it, to the freedom from disturbance, the lack of responsibility to anything but subsistence and the land upon which she lived. 

"And frogs?" she asked. "Will there be frogs.”

“And frogs.”

"Good." She gave a crooked smile and let herself lean back against his chest, feeling his stubble brush her temples. “I like the song that the spring peeper sings.”

“So do I."

“And ducks?” she asked, looking up at him, feeling something in the pit of her stomach writhe and spit, as though fighting to break free and run away. “Will there be ducks?”

“And ducks.”

“And the ducks will have so many babies.”

“We can watch them grow every morning if that pleases you.”

Her smile deepened. The image was wholesome... almost. Perhaps it could be if she only let it. She met the glimmer in Lucien's irises and thawed beneath his hands, just a little. “We’ll have a porch and we can sit out there with fresh coffee and those… those, um, comberries. I like those.”

“Mhm,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head.

“We can watch the babies grow, and then one day we can watch them fly away.”

“Mhm.”

“And when they do I will cry about it for days.”

Lucien’s hands slid down her arms and wrapped around her waist. He pulled himself closer to her, pressing the side of his face against hers. “There will be more the following year,” he whispered against her ear, and she shivered, his stubble tickling.

“Well, maybe we could have chickens too. I like the idea of little babies running around, pecking at my feet, and keeping me company while I weed the garden.”

“Sure.”

“I’ll feed ‘em any bugs I find before you can bring them in the house.”

Lucien kissed her neck, drawing from her a muted gasp. His hands slipped beneath her shirt and rested against the flat plane of her belly. “What about the two of us?”

“What about us?”

“Will we have children?”

“W-what?”

She froze, every muscle in her body tightening, but just as soon, she ripped herself away. She took a moment to collect herself, straightening out her clothes and brushing back her hair before she looked to him askance.

“What the hell did you just say?” she spat, then laughed, hard and bitter, no humor in it at all. “You’re mental!”

Lucien folded his arms in front of his chest and gave a low, rusty chuckle, clearly amused by her sudden outburst. “It was only a question,” he said.

“What’s the matter with you?” Her face soured and her stomach flipped, churning as though it was rotting inside her. She began to pace the room to keep herself from heaving. “Are you going through a mid-life crisis or something? What is with this all this talk of houses and gardens and… and children?”

Lucien stood silent, his smile silky and deep and unflinching, which was somehow infinitely more aggravating than any verbal response he could have given.

“None of this is going to happen no matter how pretty a lie it may be!” she barked. “We tell ourselves this because we can’t stand to face what has become of our miserable, pitiless lives. There will be no ducks, no pond, no privet. This is it, Lucien,” she said, shaking a fistful of blanket and throwing it at him. “This is all we have. Ten years from now, I’ll probably be dead, and you’ll find yourself with another Silencer, knowing exactly who put me in the ground.”

“I would like to point out that _you_ are the one getting upset about a fantasy that _you_ made up,” he said dismissively. “Let us stop discussing it if you are going to throw a tantrum.”

“Just leave already,” she snapped. “Why do you always stick around so long…”

“Come,” he said, gesturing toward the stairwell as Nim went right on rambling.

“…wasting all my morning with these stupid games for your sick, sick sense of pleasure. What do you think we are doing with each other, Lucien?”

“Shh,” he hushed her, stepping forward, “you are overwrought. Let us go downstairs. I will make us some coffee.”

“Don’t treat me like a bloody child! Look at us! What can we offer each other besides a moment of flesh and the promise of death? Nothing! Did you hear that? _Nothing!_ To think we will ever be anything more than that is—”

He cut her off with a kiss, so light and smooth that she could forget she was being smothered if she only let her mind drift.

“We are eternal, Nimileth,” he said, so soft, so barely there.

And she hated it, wished he would strangle her, throw her up against the wall, fill her mouth with blood, and leave her head ringing. Lucien did not, and instead, he pressed his lips to hers so gently that it was frightening, though not nearly as frightening as how gently she acquiesced, her hands winding up along his chest, raking down his arms, guiding his own hands into hers.

* * *

Nim found herself sitting before a plate of eggs and a steaming mug of coffee, feeling as though she were a stranger in her own house. Perhaps she’d sell the manor. It would force her to spend more time at the University, where she belonged. Did she even belong there? She pushed the question aside.

She would sell the house. It already felt like something not hers. The air was heavier now, tainted, thick and unwelcoming. Across from her, Lucien sat with his elbows perched upon the table, his mug hiding the complacent smile on his lips. He didn’t belong here at her kitchen table, in the seat where Raminus once sat half-dressed with Bok-zul in his lap and his smile like a ray of Magnus itself. She had let Lucien in here. Why? Why did she let him in here? She already knew he spoiled everything he touched. Herself included. Herself most of all.

“You look as though you’re thinking hard,” Lucien said, snapping her out of her musings.

“No, I never think,” she muttered. “Never had a cogent thought in my life. My skull is actually full of air.”

He hummed into his mug. “That would explain so many things.”

They ate largely in silence after that, until Lucien had finished. Once done, he turned to her, resting an arm against the table, leaning into it and looking too easy and carefree for someone as rife with deadly schemes as he was. He looked too comfortable here at her dining table and that warm sparkle in his brown eyes had begun to smolder, something newly insidious rising in its smoke. Nim steeled herself when he made to speak again.

“What is this business you have with the Blades?” he asked her, not demanding but far from casual inquiry.

“Must I tell you?” she frowned. “It is meant to be a secret.”

“I already know more than most. There is an heir who survived the assassinations two years ago. You are aiding him in securing the throne.”

“If you already knew,” she began, stabbing at a lump of egg and shoving it into her mouth, “why did you ask?”

Lucien’s smile dimmed. “It must not interfere with your work. You must not give them any suspicion of what we do.”

“I’m not an idiot,” she scowled. “You think I’m running around hailing Sithis?”

“Mhm.” His eyes shifted past her, to the foyer and the packed trunks that lined the wall beside the door. “You really are leaving,” he said, gesturing toward them. “You cannot try to lie out of this.”

“Anvil,” she admitted. “I’m leaving Anvil.”

“For where?”

“The University. You know I have responsibilities there too.”

He nodded, drawing his mug to his chest as he reclined backward. “For the Council?”

“Yes,” she said. “Things have been chaotic with the recent death of the Arch-mage. I need to be there to keep up appearances.”

“To keep up appearances with your mage?”

She ignored the hint of scorn in his voice, in his hardening stare. “With the Council,” she stated firmly.

“Is he on the Council?”

Another mouthful of eggs. A loud sip of coffee. “No,” Nim said, still chewing, “and you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Nothing good can come from your delusions,” Lucien said, and it was undeniably a warning. “You will stop if you know what is good for you.”

“As I said, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

There was a pause of silence as she continued her meal, but Lucien’s eyes never wandered. They remained on her, searing, blistering as the expression on his face slowly leached away. Nim shrugged her shoulders as though trying to shrug his very eyes off of her. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

“Do you expect me to accept it?”

“I don’t even know what you’re referring to,” she sniped. “Is this what passes for discourse among your circle of friends? How is information ever conveyed?”

“Let me make it perfectly clear then,” he deadpanned, “for your air-filled skull.” And at the sudden tonelessness of his voice, she shifted, doing her best to keep her composure from slipping. “Do you expect me to accept that you are fucking another man?”

He had that look in his eyes again. Dark, cold, as predatory as a hawk. Were it another day, were it last night even, Nim might have froze, recoiled, flinched and made to flee, but not today. Lucien had taken too much from her in the preceding hours, and she was not his prisoner no matter how much she felt like it sometimes. Life had to continue on, what little of it she still held in her grasp anyway, and she would not let the fear of his shadow prevent her from seeking freedom where she could.

And so she simply scoffed despite the fear coiling around her bones. “And what were you doing with that woman at the taproom last night, huh?” she said, narrowing her eyes as she pointed her fork at him. “I imagine she wasn’t the only one you’ve bedded since I last saw you. What about what you asked of me earlier, with Mathieu?”

“Those are not equivalent.” He said it as though he meant it, and Nim laughed, short and hollow the sound, her smile broad and joyless

“How predictably hypocritical. Only acceptable when it serves your purpose, hmm? Of course, the men get to frolic about and sow their wild oats while the women are expected to sit prim and proper waiting for their precious darling to return to her.” She winced and shook her head as though tasting sour milk. “You really think a woman’s only purpose is to sit around worshiping your—"

“You could not care less about how or with whom I spend my free time,” he cut in with a sneer. “Do not pretend.”

“I wasn’t pretending,” she shot back. “I don’t care. I cared only that you were planning to kill that innocent woman last night.”

A sharp, sinister chuckle rolled across the table. Lucien shook his head as he took another sip from his mug. “I said that to you only for the reaction I knew it would draw,” he admitted. “And you delivered it so well.”

“Ugh, you and your bloody games again. How would I even know? It sounds like something right up your alley.” She glared at him, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “But so what? Doesn’t change the fact that you were awfully _comfortable _with her for reasons it takes little to imagine.”

“It was merely part of the plan,” he said shrugging a shoulder with measured disinterest. “I came here looking for Bellamont, nothing more and nothing less. I wasn’t idly chasing after someone to warm my bed or wet my blade. That woman at the inn is the daughter of the clerk at the local office of commerce. I had been working on her for several days, and had you not interrupted me, I likely would have convinced her to let me into the county records to find the copy of the deed to my precious little grandmother’s house.”

“Ah… oh,” Nim muttered, paling a bit at the realization of what she had done. “If Mathieu owned property in town, you would have found out where.”

Lucien nodded then sighed as he passed his mug between his palms. “Time is running short on my end. Business will call me away from Anvil soon. If Bellamont sees me in town again, I fear it will send him into hiding.”

“Can’t you just break in,” she asked. “Into the office?”

“Tried,” Lucien confessed. “It’s well guarded. The Watch Captain here in town is much more vigilant than I had anticipated. Has a thing against thieves, so I hear.”

“Oh, Captain Lex. Yeah, he’s a bit… overzealous,” she said and sipped her coffee, eager to divert the conversation elsewhere. “Can’t say I blame him given his history.”

“Know him well do you?”

Nim shrugged and shoveled down another mouthful of eggs. “From my time in the waterfront. He’s not a bad guy, just devoted.”

The conversation did not pick up again after that, and she decided to keep it directed elsewhere for as long as she could. “You’re a better cook than you are an alchemist, you know,” she said, donning a coy grin.

“Huh,” Lucien breathed out. “That is almost a compliment.”

“You make good eggs." She batted her lashes a little. "What can I say."

Unconvinced and unimpressed, Lucien sipped his coffee. “The point remains, Nimileth.”

“What point?”

“Whatever you have at the University will end, by your hand or by mine, directly or indirectly. You prolong only ruin.”

“Is that a threat?” she drawled, hoping he could not see the panic veiled behind her eyes. She held her expression flat and distant, but just beneath the surface, the fear had reached the very marrow of her bones.

“It is inevitable.”

Businesslike, his voice, the indifference in his eyes. Nim let her silverware clink against her plate as she slumped backward in her chair. “Are we finished here?” she asked him, crossing her arms over her chest. “Can we go on with our days now?”

Lucien stood, a dry, wearisome sigh escaping him as though this entire ordeal had been a mere inconvenience to his intended routine. “The Draconis contract,” he said, staring down at her sharply. Whatever warmth they shared in earlier had long dissipated away. “Do not delay. You have your orders and your directions to the next dead drop.”

Nim gave him a single nod of affirmation at which he made to leave, heading for the front door. She sat with herself, the bitterness of her coffee spreading against the inside of her mouth and sliding down her throat. She stared at his empty plate across from her and her stomach tightened. It didn’t belong there and now it sat as a cold reminder that she had let him in again, and she hated it, felt like throwing that damned plate through the window and burning down everything he had touched.

Herself included. Herself most of all.

Lucien’s footsteps traveled away and as the door creaked open, she darted off into the foyer, catching him just before he stepped out into the crisp morning air.

“Hey,” she called out, and he paused, turned to her with a brow raised expectantly. “When will I— When do we need to meet again?” She stammered and forced herself to keep from cringing at how terribly wrong and absolutely _pathetic_ the question had sounded. “About Mathieu," she clarified. "If I meet with him, do you want me to write?”

Lucien looked taken aback, though whether it was feigned or not, she could not tell. “So you do miss me in the time in between,” he leered.

“Ugh.” She groaned. “No. I want to avoid another chance meeting like this in the future.”

“Yet you wonder how long until you see me again.”

“I dislike not knowing, thus I wonder,” she said, and shifted her weight onto her other foot. “I meant nothing more than that.”

Lucien stepped closer and leaned down to speak softly. “It really is a shame that such good lucks are squandered on that lack luster personality of yours.”

“Yet it does not keep you away.”

“No, I suppose it does not.” He chuckled, lips closed and the sound faint and rueful.

"So... I'll write?"

After a pause, he nodded. "Deliver it to the Newland's Lodge. Include no details, only a meeting time and location."

"Okay." She took a step back, making room to close the door, but Lucien reached out to stop it mid swing. "Yes?" she said.

He looked down at her earnestly, and she found she could not meet his eye, not even when he laid a hand against her cheek, guiding her face toward his. "What am I to you, Nimileth?”

Gaze averted, she shrugged her shoulders. “You are my Speaker,” she replied sedately, genuinely confused by the question. Wasn’t it obvious? Didn’t he know?

In her periphery, Lucien looked surprised for but a moment, as though perhaps he had anticipated a different answer. Then he smiled, and it was a dark, prideful thing. She shifted her weight again.

“Good,” he said and brought himself to her lips, whispering against them as he pulled away. “Do not forget it.”

And as he left, Nim stood watching in the doorway, fists clenched and the bitter taste of coffee lingering on her tongue, wondering if there would ever come a day where she could forget, truly forget, what he had become to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is. I worked the Lucien scene out of my blood. Relationship growth is moving at a snail's pace, but what can I say. I am a glutton for the slow burn (is it slow burn if they already bang?? Prolly not so Idk what to call this :p)
> 
> Finally moving on with Plots and Schemes to come.


End file.
